Death has no Master, but Life has Servants
by Jinchuu21
Summary: Another task had been given to him. Not one of prophecy, but of choice. He had long ago accepted his need to help people, to protect those who could not protect themselves. War was all he had known, all he was good at. It was time to help heal. But, he had long ago understood that to save a life, sometimes you had to take one.
1. Chapter 1

**289 AC – Sunspear**

Harry Baratheon – The Future Prince

Dorne was a beautiful place. From the Red Mountains to the Greenblood to the Water Gardens, all of them had their special charm. There was a different culture in Dorne than he had been used to, but that was not so bad. They were freer in Dorne. More liberal in their passions and certainly treated their bastards better. No child was held accountable for the nature of its parents. Harry did not have that problem, but it was nice to see that even those that did were not treated badly in Dorne.

 _If only it wasn't so bloody hot._

Hadrian Baratheon. That is what people called him. He preferred being called 'Harry' for those who were close to him.

He was second brother to the King of the Iron Throne, squire to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and future Prince-Consort to Arianne Martell. His arranged marriage was brought to secure Dorne's fealty to the Crown after his elder brother's rebellion. He along with the bones of Prince Lewyn Martell had brought Dorne to heal. Peace was achieved, even if both parties had done it so begrudgingly.

But, he had not always been so.

He had lived a full life, far longer than many were blessed with. He had lived a life full of magic and wonder. There were hardships and loss. But, those had just made him appreciate the happier memories all the more. He had known the love of not only one woman, but two, who had given him six wonderful children. Both were happy to follow in their parents' footsteps and he was more than happy to support them. One had become an ambassador and the other the Head of the Department of Law. He had been a househusband and philanthropist and was very happy with it. They had grown old together, raised their children together, and had the pleasure of dying together surrounded by their family: six children, twenty-two grandchildren, and four great grandchildren at the time.

He should have been in the afterlife. He should have been with the people who had died attempting to save him, who had given up everything to stop a madman with delusions of grandeur. It was all he could have hoped for when Death finally came for him. But, it was not Death that came for him as he had released his finally breath.

It was Life, or the embodiment of it, that came to greet him. She had come asking for him to perform one more time, to participate in the game Life and Death were bound to play.

He had long ago accepted his fatal flaw. Harry was not the type of person who could say no when people were in need. He had seen the wasteland the world would become if he did nothing, what she had come to him asking him to prevent. A part of him wanted to let them deal with it, to be selfish, be with the family that had waited for him, and await the family that would be with him. Not for a long time he hoped, but all ventured into the afterlife eventually.

But, that was not who he was. And so, he went unto the next great adventure with a promise to those who loved him that he would see them soon. They had waited over a hundred years to see him. What was another hundred?

"Harry." A soft voice flittered through the air.

He knew who had come and turned to meet her.

Arianne Martell had not been the most beautiful girl he had seen when they had first met. In her family alone, her uncle Oberyn's bastards Tyene and Nymeria were prettier than her. Red spots had covered her cheeks from the affliction she had as a child. She had been a pudgy thing, with a chubby face and her short height made her look rounder.

But, as soon as womanhood had hit she had started to come into her own. It was a slow process, but much of her had changed in just a year. The ringlets of black framed her face better as it became more angular, but softly so. The babe's fat had almost completely melted away and started to reveal her womanly curves. Her teats had yet to come, but if they were anything to match her curves then what a set she would have, probably enough to rival his second wife.

Not that Harry would have cared. He had promised to marry her for the peace of the realm. But, just because it was arranged did not mean he would not come to love her as much as he did his previous wives in his past life. He and Arianne were of the close in age physically, only a year apart, but mentally he was much older than her. She was just going through what some of his daughters did at her age: insecurities with physical appearance. He tried to come up with nice things to tell her to help her self-esteem.

He was reminded of a friend he had when he looked at her. His friend had bloomed late, but it had been a glorious kind of beauty she revealed.

"Princess." He greeted back with a small bow of his head. She hated it when he called her by her title. Harry just did it to tease her.

"I am your betrothed Harry. You should call me by my name or your beloved or your dear or something equally sweet." She said as she walked up to him and pouted.

"Of course. Hello Arianne. How are you doing?"

"I would be better if my promised would greet me properly." She replied with a coy smile, looking up at him through her lashes. He was not fooled. She was still young and better than her had done the same. Arianne had a long way to go if she was to successfully ensnare him with her charms. But, the act was endearing though, and albeit cute if he were honest.

Arianne was an adventurous sort. She was curious about pleasures of the flesh and tried with him often. Harry never let it get too far, mostly kisses and, just recently, light petting. It was better to give something than hear her try and guilt him into it. Whether it was genuine or just a tool to manipulate him, he hated hearing her speak negatively about herself. So, Harry made sure to lavish his attention on her whenever possible. Sometimes he wondered if he doing it so well made her pursue him for more.

It was not his fault. He had two wives in his past life and neither was exactly shy about telling him what pleased them. Harry had never been a good student at school, but he was more than willing to learn that from them.

"Yes, how rude of me." He said with a chuckle. Harry bent down to greet her and Arianne eagerly raised herself on her toes to catch his lips.

The desert was a hot place to live, especially as he had been born in the Stormlands. He kept his sides shaved to help keep cool. Harry kept hair at the top of his head to better cushion the helm he wore during training.

Arianne wrapped her arms around his shoulders, a hand coming around to clutch at his naked scalp. She moaned into their kiss and begged at his lips with her tongue for entrance. Harry relented and massaged her as she entered his mouth. He allowed it to go on for a moment before pulled away, giving a playful tug on her bottom lip as they parted. The princess did not like being apart so soon judging from the way she tried to pull him back for more.

"Was there a reason you came to find me?" He asked to her displeasure. She was struggling to tell him, not wanting to. Arianne wanted to punish him for taking breaking away before she wanted. But, he just smiled and kissed her cheek, coaxing her with sweetness.

"A messenger arrived at the gates. There are fanatics again at the hospice."

Harry groaned at the news.

"They aren't hurting anyone. But, they disturb the peace. My uncle has personally gone with some guards. Obara awaits outside for you."

In his first year being fostered in Sunspear under Oberyn's care, Harry had healed Prince Doran of his gout with magic. He could see the brief moments of pain the man had when he moved and felt sorry for him. Everyone had been amazed at seeing magic with their own eyes. Prince Doran had offered him anything he wanted in his gratitude. Harry had requested a hospital be built in the city to render medical aid to the smallfolk.

Lords, ladies, and knights could rely on the maesters they kept in their keeps. But, the smallfolk had no one. Harry opened the hospital and invited the Orphans of the Greenblood, along with other hedge wizards and woods witches, to work and take care of those without maesters. They charged those who could pay, gave discounts with less to give, and helped those with nothing. A few wealthy merchants had complain about it being unfair, but Harry told them to find help elsewhere if they were unsatisfied with their help.

No one had complained again.

Harry liked healing people. The fact that the hospice created revenue of coin for him was just a bonus.

But, when the Faith had found out that they used magic to heal, they were quick to raise alarm. It did not help their case when many of those who worked in the clinic did not pray to the Seven, Harry included. Never mind that the Faith had done nothing to help to poor or needy. The septon and septas had come down to the hospital when one of the hedge wizards was healing a woman with Summer Fever. The wizard was not even using pure magic, but very weak magic in combination with herbs. They had called them heretics, condemned them and bade them to repent.

Harry held no ill against the Faith. They could pray to whom they wished and how they wished. He did not begrudge anyone their prayers or faith. So long as they did not harm his patients, they were welcome. It was the number one rule of the hospital: they turned no one away.

A murderer could have come to them seeking aid and as much as they would have disagreed with his actions, they would have healed him. They would have had guards ready to take him to custody and judgment, but they would heal him until he was strong enough to stand trial.

But, that day, when the septon had scared the people inside the clinic, especially the children, Harry did not stop Obara from breaking the man's nose when he approached threateningly. He shooed the septon and septas and warned them from disturbing the hospital's peace ever again. They had never stepped foot near it again, but Harry had a feeling they encouraged their more fanatical followers to do so in their stead.

Harry went to the corner near his bed and grabbed his sword, a three-and-tenth nameday present from his brother Robert. None of his brothers had shown for the small party the Martell's had given him, but he accepted that it was such a far travel. It would have been a fairly arduous journey for Renly and he was in Storm's End. None had made it, but still they sent letters of their well wishes and gifts.

The sword he had gotten from Robert had a long shallowly curved blade, as Dornish favored the curved sword. Antlers were etched along the steel of the blade. The long bowed hilt, that was almost as long as the blade itself was made of hard wood, embroidered with golden scales that wrapped around until it came to a forward facing and elaborate cobra head. The snake's mouth was open, revealing short fangs and had emeralds set for eyes. The weapon was a cross between a glaive and a sword. It was a little over four feet in length, half that the blade, which was thicker than normal swords used in the other kingdoms, made for cleaving rather than stabbing. It could stab well enough and would leave a very large wound channel, but the shape was and long handle was more suited towards sweeping down a cut from the back of a horse.

Stannis had sent gold for Harry to purchase a sand-steed of the finest quality as well as a letter of intent to name Harry his heir until time came when his wife, Selyse bore him a son. The woman had a miscarriage during their years married and Stannis was probably worried about his legacy should he die. Harry sent back a letter to thank him as well as a description of the sand-steed he had bought.

His horse, Ajax, was a blood red stallion with a mane and tail the color of the midnight sky. He was a strong horse, fast as the wind if Harry pushed him. The sand-steed could run all day if Harry allowed him and was as easily slighted as his brother Stannis was. Magic help him if the stallion did not get a carrot or apple when Harry went to saddle him or at least pay him a visit at least once a week. It was hardly a problem, as Harry loved to ride. The wind in his face and hair, feeling it brush quickly against him made Harry feel so free. If he went fast enough it was almost as if he was flying.

Renly had also sent gold and a letter. He bemoaned the fact he could not attend because of ruling Storm's End. As Renly had never been the studious sort, Harry had no problem believing his little brother had trouble managing the castle. The gold was for whatever he wished, but Renly wanted him to buy clothes of the finest silks. When they next met each other Renly wanted to see the latest fashions of Dorne. Harry had no idea what that had entailed and committed the act of insanity when he asked Arianne, Ellaria, and the Sand Snakes to help with the fact.

It was an amateur mistake. Something Harry should have known since he had been married before. Twice.

"Do you plan on hurting them?" Arianne asked worriedly, seeing him carry his sword over his shoulder. It was far too long to strap to his waist with a sheath. She was not to the type to worry for the people. It was more believing that he would get hurt himself. He found it endearing.

"Not if I don't have to." He said factually. Harry had not made it past the door of his bedchamber when she felt her small hands clutch at his sleeve. Arianne stood with her back to him for a moment before turning, a regal look on her youthful face.

"I forbid you from getting hurt." She imperially commanded. Harry could not stop the grin that spread across his lips.

"As you command princess."

Arianne gave a singular, satisfied nod.

"Give your betrothed a kiss and be off to protect your precious clinic."

Harry complied, giving her a short simple kiss before stepping out past his receiving room and into the hall. He was met with Obara.

Obara Sand was another of Oberyn's bastards, the eldest at seven-and-ten. She lacked much of the beauty her sisters had. She was not as sweet looking as Tyene or as slender as Nymeria, but she was not bad looking. Plain would have been the word Harry used to describe her. Plain brown hair that was kinky and messily braided. She was big boned and well muscled from her training, but that training also sculpted her ass and did nothing to take away from an ample bust.

People might have found her attractive if not for the perpetual scowl, that was only replaced by a maniacal grin.

When he had first opened the hospice and had to venture into the city so much, Oberyn had suggested his daughter be his Sworn Shield. Harry was open to the idea, even if she was young for such a duty. He had seen how damaging she could be in the training yard. Obara was a demon when a spear or whip was in her hands. She had been trained by the Red Viper of Dorne and had beat many men twice her age. Harry had left the decision to her if she would join him. A few had been surprised when Obara had thrown her spear at his feet. Thankful she did not kneel. They may have had heart attacks.

"Harry." Obara greeted with a nod of her head.

"Aren't you lovely today Obara." He said with a grin, liking how he could make the normally unflappable girl blush. Because she was plain, Obara was a stranger to compliments. And because of how she fought on the training yard very few men ever came close enough to flatter her.

Harry had used it against her often.

"Shut up," Obara replied, straightening her back, "let's go deal with these idiots. If we are lucky I'll be able to hit one today." She said shoving servants out of their way as they walked.

He laughed and shook his head.

 _She is a poor shield, but a great battering ram._


	2. The Best Sword, The Best Spear

**AN: I had some questions about Harry's sword. I modeled it after the High Elven Sword from LOTR. I wanted sometime that was a cross between the Dornish curved sword and a longsword. But, since Harry was trained by the Red Viper Oberyn Martell, I wanted something with a spear quality to it as well. The sword from LOTR fit my needs best.**

 **Be sure to leave a review. I heavily appreciate them and will always get back to you if you leave questions or have important points.**

 **If you guys have any ideas for the story, would like to see some things take place. Let me know. My muse is being a righteous bitch right now.**

 **Also, I would like to say thank you to all the people who gave ideas already. They were great. But, I would like to put something out there for people saying Harry should do some pretty weird stuff.**

 **Think about your childhood...how much can you remember? Ask your grandparents...how much could they remember? Do you see where I'm going?**

 **Don't expect Harry to invent gunpowder or something like that. I gave him magic, so I have to confine him a little, make him good with what Dorne already has. That's the direction I want to go. He'll still do some pretty cool stuff, but not like...built aqueducts comparable to the Romans.**

 **You also have to keep in mind that when we grow up, most of us grow stagnant. We do our jobs, we love our families, and such, but if you're an accountant you don't also study to become an electrical engineer (unless that was your goal in the first place). I already wrote how Harry was for all intents and purposes a househusband. His wives went and became successful. He did the things he was always good at. He cooked, he cleaned, took care of the kids, and helped people. He used his Potter fortune to help people. Same way shows have billionaires become philanthropist.**

 **Don't take this as me discouraging ideas. I really love them. But, I felt I should clear that up. A reviewer mentioned a printing press in my other story. I couldn't help but think, that what the hell would he know about a printing press. Hogwarts used quill and parchment. But, yeah.**

 **Keep those ideas coming though. Don't get discouraged if I don't use it.**

 **Cheers**

 **~Jin**

Obara Sand – The Sworn Shield

Harry was a healer. No amount of telling her would change Obara's mind. He used his magic to help those who needed it and enjoyed it. He preferred it. To Harry fighting was just a means to retain peace. He heightened his skills to better protect. There was no thought of glory or fame.

But, that did not mean he wasn't good at it.

Her father had taken him as a squire, to make him suitable for his future position as prince-consort. Personally, Obara thought Oberyn took Harry as his squire to see the new king twitch at the thought of his little brother being trained by a Dornishman. Rumor was King Robert Baratheon nearly burst a vein from his screaming tantrum when Jon Arryn suggested his brother be married to Princess Arianne and fostered in Sunspear.

It was no secret that Harry was Robert's favorite brother. He took time from all the whoring and drinking to actually write. They doubted it was him doing the writing, but he at least dictated to someone what to write. There was also the sword the king had gifted him that probably cost more than some knight's full suits of armor.

She had helped her father in Harry's tutelage of spear and sword. Both were surprised at how well someone so young took to combat.

Harry was fast, incredibly so. He moved without fear, without hesitation, and attacked with a singular purpose: to end it quickly. He had none of the flair her father was prone to. Did not banter with opponents other than her and Oberyn. Harry was a little reckless, always charging head first, but his speed and reflexes gave him that leeway. There had been times when Obara had been put on her back foot when Harry came in for the assault. He had even given her father a surprise or two. He was not as good with a spear as either of them, but he was certainly better than most.

Harry truly excelled, would surpass her father one day, in the sword. He preferred two-handed swords, forgoing a shield, and used his speed. Harry could flow with a sword. Oberyn had compared it to a Water Dancer he had seen traveling through the Free Cities, if bravos used something akin to half-glaives. Harry moved as if he was dancing, moving like water from one movement to another. He never moved more than he had to, but each movement was natural. Calculated, yet natural. Which was ironic because the young man could not dance to save his life. If he had the mind to, Obara had no doubt Harry could be placed himself high on the list of Dorne's greatest swordsmen, a little below or right next to the late Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.

Not that Harry needed the fame.

Within a year of him opening his clinic, Harry had become more loved amongst the people than a septon or knight. They parted from his way as if touching him was some grave sin. When he talked to them, questioning about their health or the well being of a family member he had healed, their eyes sparkled and smiles grew so wide it looked as if it would split their faces apart. He was damn near holy in their eyes.

'Harry the Healer' they called him as they lavished him with praise. It was no fewer than once a day that Harry declined some gift from the people they passed. Bakers would come out offering fresh bread, vintners would follow saying good bread needed good wine, even women from the pillow houses were abnormally polite. None too few had offered to show him the pleasures of the flesh, but not in the same way they normally accosted those who walked by. When Harry smiled at them, the women who were hardly maids blushed and giggled like ladies in waiting.

But, Obara supposed that was what happened when you healed their children and family on a regular basis. People came from the very edges of the city to see Harry about some affliction or another. People came from other keeps to see him, traveled from as far as Blackmont to have Harry heal them.

And the people loved him for that.

It was no different when they went to disperse the fanatics that threatened the peace of Harry's hospice. It was not the first time they had tried. The first time they had tried, the public had damn near stoned them to death with dirt clods. But, as that displeased Harry the people of Sunspear had never done it again.

Oberyn stood near the entrance, leaning against the wall with his spear, half a dozen guards in front of him hands on their swords. It was another one of Harry's rules. Weapons were not to be brandished, if it could be helped, inside the hospital. He knew that some guards carried spear and would allow them entrance, but only after a stern warning that no unnecessary harm was to be caused. In front of the castle guards were able-bodied strong men, civilians who held clubs in their hands and gave the gathered fanatics menacing looks. They were probably people who had been healed, who had family that had been healed, or were currently being treated.

She gave her father a nod, which he returned with a grin, before giving Harry the same greeting.

"Healer." Came the greeting of the men standing with clubs, as they bowed their head in respect.

"Thank you, good men. I appreciate you trying to keep the peace. But, I have told you that you need not put yourself in harm's way." Grown men put their heads down in admonishment. Obara would have laughed if not for the fact Harry would have glowered at her for it. Still, almost all of them were one and half times as wide as Harry, with a head more in height. Yet, they looked like children being admonished by their father.

"Go. Be with your families. If they are inside, you will leave your weapons at the reception room. Do we understand each other?" It was not really a question, but they nodded their heads like boys who had just been chastised for sneaking sweets before sulking off in their different directions.

It happened in a flash. She could have blinked and missed it. All the warmth and jovial nature Harry had with the men who protected his clinic had vanished. If she were a lesser woman, Obara would have gulped at the look on his face. His eyes were hard. His lips that were normally always curved into some kind of smile were set into a thin, firm line. It did not take a person of high intellect to know that Harry was displeased.

It was hard for Obara not to smirk at the fact.

 _Maybe, I will get to hit someone today._

"Why do you disturb the peace here? This is a place of healing. I have warned you once not to cause trouble." Harry said firmly in a threatening tone.

"This is a public street. We do no harm standing here." A man, the spokesperson for the collective, said with a sneer. Obara stepped forward with a snarl. The gall of the man annoyed her. It was only Harry's insistence they not be harmed that allowed them to stand where he did. Otherwise, they would have been drowned in the harbor and witnesses would be conveniently hard to find.

Her spear lowered and hovered dangerous close to him. His sneer lightened, but he did not back down. Instead he presented his throat in mockery. She was tempted to run him through for that alone, but Harry's sword across her chest halted her advance. Obara snorted at the man and returned his sneer.

"I have just said you disturb the peace. So, yes, you do, do harm. You want to stand there and protest? Fine. You want to carry signs and proclaim us helping those who need it as heretics? Fine." Harry growled. "But, you will do so quietly. There are those inside who are in need of rest or are recovering. You do nothing to help their condition. They are my patients and I will not stand for you hindering their recovery."

"We will not be silenced! We loyal to the Faith of the Seven will loudly condemn those who allow witchcraft to be practiced on them. Their souls are in danger and you are the one to do it. Harry the Healer," he scoffed, "Harry the Hellish I call you! For that is where you will send them if this travesty is allowed to continue!"

Obara felt it before she saw it. The air became…thicker, more humid. A weight surrounded her from all sides. She had experienced something like it before, but it was better last time. When Harry used his power to heal it was a feeling of lightness, an almost euphoric feeling to those he touched and those around him. He glowed a comforting golden hue and it emitted from like he was the sun. It was an indescribable feeling really. Obara could not find the words to describe how…light she felt. It was like a mother's warm embrace.

But, there was no lightness to Harry as he stared at the gathered mob. His eyes turned bright white with a gold fiery aura around them. He was surrounded in it, but instead of the sun, his golden hue slowly danced like holy fire. Even as she stepped back, she could feel the heat that came. His sword was covered in it and made him look all the more intimidating. It was no embrace, but the feeling of the guilty when being marched to the chopping block.

"So you will continue to disturb this place of peace? This place of healing?" Harry asked, in a voice not quite his own. He still sounded like himself, but it was sonorous. His words echoed in the wind and reverberated in her bones. It was as if Harry was speaking to her very soul.

"W-w-we…will…continue…to preach…the…one...true…Faith." The man stuttered as he looked upon Harry in his glory. Those behind him were not as sure, but stood firm in their numbers.

"Be gone then." Harry said in a whisper that was clearly heard. They hesitated to follow his command. They stood defiant.

"Be gone!" Harry slammed his sword into the ground. The earth shook, as if someone had picked it up and gave it a quick jerk. The light surrounding Harry exploded outward and blew the protesters off their feet as if they were caught in the most powerful gust.

Obara could not see any harm to them, only the shock of the push. Like all cowards, they were quick to flee. They scrambled, leaving each other behind in the face of Harry's righteous fury. The smallfolk jeered at them as they ran past, cheering Harry at the same time. It mattered little to them what he had done. They had seen him do great deeds with his magic, just not in a show of force.

The people came to him slowly, calling out to him. They reached out to touch him as if some of his power would leak unto them if they did so.

"Off with you, off with you." An old man chastised lightly, coming from the inside of the clinic. "Healer Harry has matters to attend to."

"Maegar, how fare the patients in the clinic?" Harry asked turning around the address the old man.

He was a hedge wizard born in the Reach and had come to learn and hopefully teach Harry some of his craft when whispers had spread of magic being used to heal in Sunspear. And Harry had learned much from the man on herbs used to treat common and deadly illness alike. Nothing as extravagant as the potions used by maesters, but simple remedies that smallfolk could readily afford to pay him for.

"Very well, Healer." Maegar replied respectfully, approaching with the aid of his gnarled walking stick. "But, I am afraid your display has awaken many. They are all overcome with excitement."

"Yes, sorry about that," Harry said sheepishly, scratching at the back of his scalp. "I came here to put down the disturbance and seem to have caused one myself."

Maegar gave a soft, rasping laugh and patted Harry on the shoulder.

"We must break a few eggs to make an omelet, Healer. Some of the children wanted to see you anyway. They crave for more of those strange stories you tell."

Harry did tell strange stories. Fairytales of castles full of children who learned magic together near a forest full of centaurs, unicorns, and gigantic spiders. Their favorite was about a boy pulling a magical sword out of a hat and slaying a snake the size of a dragon whose eyes could kill on sight and had venom with the toxicity of a thousand cobras. There was one about a boy fighting off a hundred wraiths with the power of love and light that scared away the demons. Ironically, the creature of the light took form in the shape of a stag. A tale of three friends who adventured across the lands to find items that held the soul of an evil sorcerer.

The children could not get enough. Some who lived near by came just to hear Harry tell his tales. They all wanted to believe they could be the heroes in those stories, be child-heroes to rid the world of evil. And Harry, the doting idiot that he was, let them. He let them all believe they could be brave warriors. That they did not have to be knights and lords to do great things. It was a dream. A fantasy no realer than the stories he told.

' _What truly belong to us if not our own dreams?'_ he has said to her once when she had brought it up. It was times like those that she questioned how old he was truly or what kind of stories he had been read as a child. From the way he spoke sometimes, it was as if his parents had read him nothing but life lessons and books on philosophy. Her father was twice his age and did not speak such wisdom. Her uncle was four times his age and did not say things to them so profound.

"Well, I don't believe I have anything that currently demands my attention. We cannot disappoint the children can we?" Harry said with a large grin.

"Of course not, Healer. Of course not."

"I am not sure how I feel about my squire just gallivanting off into the city and ignoring his duties to me?" Oberyn jumped in. He had a grin to match Harry's; making it rather obvious he was teasing him.

"Let me help you. You feel glad." Harry jested back.

"But who is going to clean my armor? Take care of my horses? Sharpen my sword and spears? I mean that's what squires are supposed to do. It's tradition." Oberyn whined.

"The stable hand will feed your horses. Whoever cleaned your armor before you had a squire will continue to do so. I am responsible for the hospice and all the patients in it. Their health trumps tradition. Any other questions?" Harry explained as they walked into the clinic.

"I know that already Harry. It was a jest. You have become much less fun since my brother gave you the clinic." Her father sighed. Obara gave him a quick tap with her elbow. He teased too much.

"You've even turned my own daughter against me. What is a man to do?" He put the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to faint like a maid. She had wondered why Harry had not taken the opening when Oberyn mentioned his spear.

 _Ellaria polishes your spear enough, too old to have decent wood, not interested in spears, only in sheathes? Nothing?_

Obara spotted the reason.

A group of children had gathered and were laughing at her father's antics. They all bowed, the girls doing their best to curtsy. They only gave him their attention for a moment before jumping up and hounding Harry. 'Healer Harry' they shouted before Harry gently shushed them.

"That's where they all went!" Helena, a portly woman who was a midwife to the clinic exclaimed. She was a sweet woman from Pentos, a very motherly figure, but an overbearing one. "Healer, the children are supposed to be in bed for midday meal. They will have to eat and take their medicine before you give them their stories."

The collective 'aw' elicited a chuckle from those grown. Still, the children looked up at Harry, hoping he would overturn the midwife's decision.

"Go back to your beds, little ones. I will tell stories later on in the day. Midwife Helena will gather you. Okay?"

They were clearly disappointed, but grumbled their consent. Helena had herded the children like one would sheep, fixing their hospice gowns.

"I will not take all this grumbling. Growing children must eat. You will not grow on stories alone." They heard her admonish them.

"A bit…" Oberyn started, but did not finish.

"Helena is a good midwife, Prince Oberyn," Maegar assured, "A bit overbearing, a tad too motherly, but she has the children's best interest at heart."

"That is all anyone will say about her." Harry said. "What requires my attention at the moment, Maegar?"

"I'm pleased to say there are no patients that require your attention at the moment. But, it is with deep regret to inform you that the expense report is due in in two weeks time. You will need to review the documents left by Prince Doran's accountant and finalize it before submission to the prince, Healer."

Harry and Obara groaned. Harry because he hated doing paperwork. It was so menial and tedious. Plus, the accountant her uncle had sent was a weasel of a man who made himself far more important than he was. She had told Harry to replace him, but Harry would not. For as many headaches he gave Harry, the man was good at his job, just very mouthy.

Obara groaned because she would have to stay with him. She appreciated what Harry did, admired it even, but her life as his Sworn Shield was incredibly boring. And she could not even release her stress in the training yard, as their time there was too short, with Harry always going to the clinic.

"On another note," her father interjected, "We will have to come up with a better moniker than that. Harry the Healer is a great name for you now, but hardly something you can carry when you become a knight."

"I am a healer and not yet a knight. Even when I do become a knight, Ser Harry will do. When I marry to Arianne, it will be Prince Harry. What difference does it make?" Harry asked with a roll of his eyes. He made to walk away, but Oberyn grabbed him by the back of his collar and held him in place.

"Oh, no you don't. We must finish this. I don't want to come up with something on the spot when you are knighted."

"Call me Ser Harry the Pink Unicorn for all I care. Just nothing hyphenated. I have paperwork to do, Oberyn." Harry struggled. It was so comical that Maegar chuckled his olden laugh and Obara cracked a smile.

"Surely you are joking. Your knightly name represents me as well. The Red Viper of Dorne cannot have knighted his squire The Pink Unicorn of Dorne or something as equally ridiculous as a hyphenated name. It must be something that embodies you, but must also strike fear and respect into those who hear it." Oberyn said, yanking again at Harry as he took a step away.

"Oberyn. I know you don't know the banes of paperwork as your brother does all of it. But, let me assure you it is a slow and painful torture. I wish to be over with it quickly, so I may tell the children their stories."

Her father was about to speak when Maegar cut in.

"Perhaps, I could be of use in this matter, Healer, Prince Oberyn."

"Please, do Healer Maegar."

Harry stood still, huffing with his arms across his chest. His robes were still pulled up, the low neckline hugging at his neck as her father lifted the fabric to secure Harry in place.

"There is this story I was told when I was much younger than all of you. There was a creature that was as deadly as it was benevolent. A couatl it was called. A large feathered serpent with gold scales and wings the color of the rainbow that allowed it to fly. They were known for their beauty, magic, and virtue. They were intelligent creatures, said to be able to speak to the minds of humans and one of their feathers free given could heal anything short of death. They were also devoted to the notion of good–"

"Yes! That sounds perfect! " Oberyn exclaimed, only to be thwacked in the stomach by Harry.

"This is a hospice, speak at a reasonable level." Harry chided.

Obara would have thought any other man a fool to strike the Red Viper of Dorne, even lightly. Her father was not a man to take such things lightly. The only one he allowed to hit him was Ellaria and whores. That was only if he was feeling particularly frisky.

 _I hate how I know that…_

"Like the reasonable level you spoke earlier?" Her father asked with a raised brow.

"I was outside." Harry grumbled sheepishly.

"Of course, you are the Healer. You can do no wrong. You fart rainbows, birds swoop down to lace flowers in your hair in the morning, and your cock is made of gold with hair of silk."

Obara made a face at the very poor metaphor. Harry was of the same mind because his face was twisted at the ridiculousness.

"How does that even make sense? What good would a cock of gold do? I mean…how would you even feel anything? Wouldn't it be cold and uncomfortable for the woman on it?"

She almost slapped her face at Harry's reply.

 _That's what bothered you!_

Her father squinted in contemplation. Many times he opened his mouth just to close it. He let go of Harry and cupped his chin in thought.

"It made sense at the time," he waved Harry away dismissively, "the point is Ser Harry the Benevolent sounds pretty good or maybe, The Couatl of Dorne Ser Harry. No, no, that doesn't sound right."

Oberyn paced in the waiting room in contemplation, mumbling to himself. He seemed to forget they were present.

"Harry? You're still here? Don't you have an audit to do?" He asked. Obara was surprised he could keep a straight face. "You are responsible for this hospice Harry. You shouldn't be skirting your duties."

Harry gaped at her father for a moment before spinning on his heals and throwing his hands into the air. Maegar followed after him at a more sedate place.

"Why do I put up with you?" He asked to no one.

"Because you're my squire and you love me!" Her father shouted down the halls. "Don't deny it Harry! It's bad for your health to hold these things in!" He guffawed when Harry gave him the bowman's salute. It took the old man to reach up with his walking stick to make Harry bring the gesture down.

"I just love how feisty he can be sometimes." Oberyn said with a shake of his head.

"Sometimes I wonder how I am the child to you?" Obara sighed.

"Oh, you just don't understand."

"Understand what?" She questioned. "You tease him for your enjoyment. What else is there?"

"Harry is still young. He should be allowed to act his age. He should be riding horses, sparring in the training yard–"

"He does train in the yard." She interjected, but her father went on as if she had said nothing.

"–getting into trouble, traveling the Free Cities, and having sex, copious amounts of sex. But, he spends all his time training or here. It is not an uncommon occurrence for your cousin to bemoan her betrothed working too much and not spending enough time with her. I find myself not liking it either. I mean if he was learning in a pillow house, I could forgive him. But, to work…" Her father shivered and she could only sigh. She loved him, truly she did. But, sometimes…

"He does good here. I will speak to her about venturing with him to the clinic."

"Your uncle does not like the idea. She had asked before. There are too many unforeseen variables to allow the Princess of Dorne to meander through the city."

"Then speak to him on it." She did not know why she was putting so much work into her cousin's happiness. Yes, she loved the girl, but if her cousin wanted to visit she would.

"I shall. But, I do have a question for you."

"Yes?" She sighed questioningly, knowing she would not like it. Her father was never the one to ask serious questions.

"Harry is a young man. A handsome young man."

"And?" Obara did not like what her father was hinting. She understood what he meant. Harry was an attractive young man. Shorter than her, but that was expected given he had only become a man at four-and-ten. She liked the way he cut his hair. He did not keep it long like some men, did not wear it like a woman. It was basic, clean, and did not require constant maintenance. The way a man should have his hair. He was broad shouldered, with the hint of a powerful chest, and a face nice enough to look at. But, she did not like where she believed her father was headed.

"Why have you not taken him abed? I'm sure your cousin would appreciate you helping break him in."

 _I knew it…_

She resisted the urge to punch him. The same urge she got when Harry complimented her teasingly.

"Because he is three years my junior," Obara hissed at him, not liking the mischievous gleam in his eyes. If he were anyone else, she would have driven her spear into it. "And he is my cousin's betrothed. They have not been even been together yet. Considering how much she clings to him I doubt she would appreciate it if I took their first time together."

"I was just asking." Oberyn held up his hands in surrender.

"Why do you care anyway?" She asked scathingly.

"I don't really. You can lay with whomever you wish. You, Nymeria, and Tyene are all considered grown women. I want you to learn how to make decisions for yourselves. I was just curious because, though you hide it well, you do blush around him. Is it his dreamy eyes?" Her father mockingly swooned as he laid his head on her shoulder. She elbowed him in the gut with a grunt.

"If you are so curious about which of your daughters will lie with your squire, talk to Tyene."

"Hm, I would have thought Nymeria. Harry always looked like the type to fancy older women. Maybe that is just me projecting me at his age. Anyways, continue."

Obara was not one for gossip. She was not the type who would fit well in sowing circles that were so popular in the north. Useless ways of spending time were maids and ladies in waiting sowed and drank wine while they chattered around talking about what attribute they admired on a man.

She was Obara Sand.

If she wanted a man or woman, she grabbed them by cock or cunt and told them so. She did not need to giggle amongst other women and wonder.

 _Besides, Harry?_

He was pleasing to look at, but he was too…it would have been like fucking a septon. She admired that he fought well. Admired his strength and prowess with a blade. But, he was like a…septon…who knew how to kill.

 _Yes, that is the best description._

She looked to Harry and saw someone great, but was not to be touched. He was a gentle soul, mostly, and brought her comfort: a spiritual and platonic kind of comfort. While Obara would not lie and say she had not thought about it, especially when his robes were off while he trained in the yard and his skin glistened with sweat in the sun, the thought just made her…uneasy.

He was her friend at best.

They trained together. They bantered. They rode horses together and Harry would admonish her for using her spurs to roughly. They had their niche. It was a good niche. One they were both perfectly fine with.

But, it would have been a lie to say she did not dream of him.

He would be the best swordsman in all of Dorne and she would be the best spearman. They would fight together side-by-side in a formation with their spears at the ready, prepared to skew all those who would stand against them.

Or, they would trample their enemies with horses as Dornish cavalry with Harry scything through the opposition like a farmer his wheat. The Seven Kingdoms, the entire world would see them on their sand-steeds, Harry clad in his golden glow and armor with her in copper-coated steel, and they would know the Sword and Spear of Dorne descended upon them.

Maybe, they would be both. She would lead the infantry while Harry led the cavalry charge. She would cause their enemies to route and he would ride them down. She would fight for glory and honor. Harry would fight for justice. And they would have all three.

That is what she dreamed of when she thought of Harry. That was the reason for her blushes. The reason shivers crawled up and down her spine when he was near.

She did not like gossip, but gossiping with her father would turn his nose elsewhere. It was easier for her to do so instead of explain. How in the world would she explain?

She almost felt bad for sicking their father on her. The man would be insufferable.

Almost.

"You know Arianne and Tyene share everything."

"Ah, yes. They still think I do not know when the sneak skins of wine from the kitchen." Oberyn chuckled.

"Well, I have heard them conspiring to take Harry together. Arianne is smitten, but loves her cousin well. She requires being Harry's first, but promised to speak to him about taking Tyene as his paramour. Tyene finds Harry desirable. She has even confessed to wanting to steal kisses from him. And not the kisses normally bestowed upon her, chaste kisses to her cheek or head. Arianne cautions her to tread carefully, to wait for her to bring it up to him. Harry has been in Dorne for a few years, but he was still born in the north and still young yet. As far as they know, the most he has ever done is with Arianne and she has admitted they have not done much."

She felt a little bad. Obara had just thrown her sister underneath a moving horse cart. But, it would keep her father from broaching such a ridiculous subject with her again.

"Huh, I would have thought my niece and daughter more tenacious." Oberyn commented with a shrug.

"Well, Harry is unnaturally cunning for someone his age."

"That is true," he admitted, "I still remember that time he switched my Dornish wine for pear brandy. I nearly choked I was unready for it."

Obara remembered that time. Her father had been sparring with her, Harry sitting off to the side waiting his turn. During their break Oberyn had pulled his wineskin and hacked everything he had tried to pull. He coughed so hard he nearly vomited. They all had shared a laugh at the prank. But, Harry was not laughing when it was his turn to take her father in the sparring circle.

"Then what do you think of Harry? Why do you blush when he compliments you? What he says is not a lie. You are one of the finest spearmen in Sunspear. I would wager on you over many of the guards in our House in a duel."

She did her best not to preen. It was compliments like those that Obara knew Oberyn was her father. Only a father could be so loving. Well, Harry had said those compliments to, but that was different.

Obara was hesitant to tell him. It seemed like such a childish thing, a fantasy. But, as he looked upon her so openly, so endearingly, Obara had caved. To her surprise her father just grinned wider and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"It is a good dream to have. I'm sure Harry would be honored to fight beside you. You will bring honor and glory to Dorne one day, daughter. Do not seek it. It will come easier when you are not looking." He advised.

Obara could do nothing else, but nod.

"Besides there are other things for you to experience. Maybe you will find yourself liking to be a mother. If Arianne is already speaking of sharing Harry with Tyene, maybe she will allow for Harry to give you a child. I have always wanted grandchildren to spoil. I could just give them back when I was done with my fun."

Obara gave in to the urge to strike him. It was in the arm and only half her strength, but it was satisfying to feel her fist collide into something and hear him hiss in pain.

The moment had been broken. Obara stalked off to find her charge. Maybe he would let her terrorize his accountant.

"Grandchildren daughter, at least two of them! I want you to know how I got my grey hairs at one-and-thirty!"

 _Why have the gods inflicted such a father upon me?_


	3. Chapter 3

**289 AC – Sunspear**

Oberyn Martell – The Red Viper of Dorne

He had not originally liked the idea of a Baratheon marrying into his family. The very notion had made him froth at the mouth. It was the Baratheon king who denied them their justice for his sister, niece, and nephew. Robert Baratheon that had left Clegane, Lorch, and Tywin Lannister walk away without repercussion.

Oberyn had done his best to talk his brother out of it. He had spoken as sweetly as he would to seduce a woman for his brother to see reason. When that did not work he had raged. Unleashed a string of curses that would have made the saltiest of Dornish men blush and septas bleed from their ears. Then, he had begged. Did everything short of actually falling to his knees and stretching out his hands.

But, it had all been for naught.

Once his brother's mind had been made to something, it was as solid as steel.

Harry had been a child when he came to them, only nine years of age. He showed no fear, stood in front of them humbly, genuinely sad for what had befallen his family. But, for as sorry as he was, Harry was not afraid. Of course, Oberyn knew there was no reason for the young boy to be afraid. They did not hurt children in Dorne. Oberyn would not place the king's guilt on Harry's shoulders.

But, other children would have been afraid.

He could not change his brother's mind, so Oberyn had done the only thing he could have done. He made the boy his page. He would teach Harry what it meant to be a man, a good man, the kind of man who would not allow the rape and slaughter of innocents to go unpunished.

He still remembered the day he decided.

 **FLASHBACK**

A year had past and Oberyn watched the young boy from the shadows. He had a guard attend to the boy's combat training, wanting to spend some time with his lover and daughters. The day had been going well until Obara had burst into Sarella's nursing chambers, her brown hair matted to her forehead with sweat. His oldest daughter had tried to speak between heaving breaths, but the words 'Harry', 'trouble', and 'tilt yard' were clear enough for Oberyn to understand.

It was with long, dangerous strides that he stalked through the halls after telling Obara to fetch his spear. Whatever he had been expecting to encounter at the training yard was not what Oberyn wanted to see. A small part of him was hoping Harry had been causing the trouble.

But, it was not.

The guard he had assigned to teach Harry in his place had recruited a few friends it had seemed. They circled around him with blunted steel spears and proper Dornish shields, while Harry had a simple wooden stick. It looked more like the handle of a broom than a training spear. He was covered in sweat, his shirt off and skin pinking under the stare of the sun. His body was sinewy, muscles coiled like a snake.

He looked worse for wear.

The boy tried to brave on, look unaffected, but Oberyn's eyes were trained. There was large gash of split skin on the boy's cheek, from the corner of his lips nearly to his ear. A testament that blunted metal was still dangerous. It would not cut too well, but it was still capable of breaking skin. Harry's leg was hurt, the boy limping at he swiveled one way or another to keep his eyes on all the guards that surrounded him like he was an animal.

He looked the very vision of it, a wound animal being corralled by hunters. And Oberyn knew that it made Harry, just like all animals, all the more dangerous.

Even as the guards teased and ruthlessly toyed with the boy, even as Obara was handing him his spear, even as his lover, niece, and other children had showed, it was Harry that captivated Oberyn's attention.

Harry held his 'spear' tightly, using sliding strikes and wild swings to keep his opponents at bay. His teeth were bared, like a snake bearing its fangs as it readied to strike, the dripping blood making him look all the more grotesque and wrathful. He was wild, angry, and ferocious. His blood was showing through; the Baratheon fury was rearing its head.

It was a beautiful, if albeit strange sight.

His eldest daughter was shoving his spear into his hand, his lover was harshly whispering for him to intervene, but Oberyn just raised his hand to still them all. He wanted to see what young Harry would do. The child was in no danger now that Oberyn was near, but something compelled Oberyn to watch.

He wanted to see.

The guard he had put in charge of Harry's training for the day attacked first. The blunted metal spear came quick, poised to skew in Harry like he was a flank of lamb. The boy charged recklessly towards the threat, barely twisting his body around the spear. Harry roared his fury and retaliated, his spear arm shooting forward like the string of a bow. The wooden stick in his hand struck with the force of an arrow and drilled into the guard's forehead. The man's head snapped back, his skull being saved by the helm he wore. But, he stumbled back to his knees dazed.

The attack was more of luck than skill, having only landed because the guard was sloppy. But, the speed, the power…that was all Harry.

A grin spread across Oberyn's face.

The boy was unafraid.

That was not something that could truly be taught. Techniques and conditioning could be imparted. But, fearless, courage, those were made from within.

Many more lessons were needed, but Harry was a diamond in the rough. Oberyn knew that with enough polish and tending to, Harry could be a jewel worthy of a crown…in terms of fighting at least.

As the two other guards went to avenge their fallen comrade, Oberyn stepped from the shadows and began to clap, halting the men's advance.

"Well struck, young Harry. Excellent use of speed and power, but your form leaves much to be desired. Don't you gentlemen agree?"

"Prince Oberyn." The three guards and Harry said with a bow of their heads in greeting. He ignored the greetings and instead stood in front of Harry. The adrenaline was wearing off and the boy looked ready to collapse where he stood, but he willfully stayed up right. The cut on his face had leaked as far as his collarbone. There had been a lot, but nothing too threatening to his health.

"You look need of tending too," Oberyn stated unnecessarily and Harry's look spoke of it. Still, the older man smiled and beckoned his niece forward. "Arianne, would you show Harry here to the maester."

The princess of Dorne nodded her head, even as her face looked torn between wanting to look worried and blushing. Her eyes were focused on the wound on his pretty face and Harry turned away slightly so she could not see. Oberyn placed a hand on the boy's shoulder as he limped forward.

"It will be a good looking scar. All women love battle scars." He said with a comforting grin. It make have been more lecherous than comforting, but it was the thought that counted.

Harry just grinned a macabre grin and Arianne's own blush heightened.

Before the young man left with his niece, who taken the silk shawl she used to cover her body and pressed it against Harry's cut, Harry turned to the guards and spat his blood on the ground. He did nothing but laugh as he saw the men's eyes widen.

It was a small, simple gesture, but such things had meaning. Oberyn was amused because the guards looked more insulted than worried. And they should have been more concerned. They had cornered Harry, the brother of Robert Baratheon. They had hunted him and he had survived. The slight would not go unforgotten.

But, that was in the future.

They would have more immediate problems to deal with.

The princess and his pseudo-ward had not made it halfway down the hallway when his eldest stomped towards the men, his spear clutched in her hands.

Obara lacked much of the beautiful her sisters had. Even Tyene, who was many years younger, was more beautiful to look at. That did not mean his eldest was ugly. But, she was rather plain looking. She did not have the midnight black hair of Nymeria, as hers was brown and kinky. Obara did not have the sweet and innocent look of Tyene, but when her blood was up and her face twisted into a snarl, his daughter reminded him of a warrior queen who looked beautiful in her fury.

As much as he wanted to see how much his daughter had improved in her training, Oberyn halted Obara's advances. She threw him a look that was both questioning and withering.

Not that Oberyn could blame her.

He was well aware of Obara's…fondness of Harry. The boy was younger, true, but he was also the only one to treat Obara no different than her sisters. It did not matter to him that she was average looking. In the few months he had been around, Harry openly showed his appreciation for her prowess with a spear and complimented her often. It was where Oberyn had gotten the idea to compare Obara to a warrior queen. He had heard the younger man mention it once before. His eldest had played it off the compliments, punching the lad in the shoulder and calling him stupid. But, Oberyn had seen the traces of her appreciation for the flattery.

It was strange to Oberyn. The boy was young and inexperienced with everything in life. There was no way that Harry did not know why he was being fostered, but his outlook was so…open and cheerful. It drew his family in like moths to a flame. Even his lover Ellaria was fond of the boy who was equal parts charming, respectful, and witty. It helped that he was difficult to make blush. The girls loved trying to see who would be the first to do it.

A quick nudge of his shoulder brought Oberyn from his musings. Obara looked to him before motioning with her eyes to the guards. He rolled his eyes at his daughter's insistence. Oberyn was going to deal with it. There was no need for her to push.

"You had your asses handed to you by a boy." He said with a hint of mockery towards the guard. "Maybe I should have him train you instead."

The man made to reply, but Oberyn just waved his excuses away dismissively.

"There are more important questions to answer. Why was young Harry not given a shield? Why were you and your men using steel? Perhaps most importantly, why were there three of you against one child? I asked you to train him, not hunt him down like some animal."

There was not question as to his outlook on the entire spectacle. His anger was quite plain, even if his tone did not reflect it. He had learned that a calm anger was much more frightening.

The guards were all looking at each other for answers. But, they quickly came to the conclusion that they had none that would please him. They all quickly dropped to a knee.

"My prince, we did as we thought you wanted." The one he had put in charge said, his head bowed in deference.

The words made Oberyn's eye twitch.

It was an insult of the highest order and he did not consider himself a man easily insulted. There were times he thought his brother weak, but at certain times he envied his brother. His brother the patient, calm man he was. Doran would have thrown the men into a cell for endangering their ward for a few weeks. But, Oberyn was not his brother. His blood was every bit of Dorne: hot and unforgiving.

"May I see your helm?" He asked to the man in charge. Oberyn hefted the copper covered steel in his hands before turning to one of the others. He struck as fast as his moniker.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five strikes to the guard's helm covered head, following him as he fell to the ground. Once the man's face was groaning and successfully bloodied, Oberyn threw the helm back to its owner. He wrapped his blood-covered fingers around the guard's face.

"We are not Lannisters. We do not blame children for the sins of their fathers or brothers. We most certainly do not harm them," He seethed, "If I so much as hear whispers of this happening again…the boy is my squire, he is entitled to a certain amount of respect. If he is not," Oberyn leaned in close with narrowed eyes, "We will see how well you do against someone who knows how to wield live steel."

There was no question as to whom the guard would be facing and they were all equally fearful of the prospect. No one took a challenge from the Red Viper lightly. The guards nodded their compliance all too quickly with vigor.

"Good," Oberyn said with a smile, all signs of anger vanishing just as quickly as he appeared. "Now, leave."

The guards picked up their comrade and rushed away from the prince of Dorne, not wanting to be subject to his ire again.

Oberyn was not given a moments peace and his daughters attacked him with questions.

"Since when has Harry been your squire?" Nymeria asked.

"Will Harry become a knight like in the stories?" Tyene gushed.

"I fight better than him, can I be a squire like Harry?" Obara questioned.

Oberyn laughed as they bound up to him and circled all of them into a hug. They were not so big he could not do it yet.

"Since right now and we shall see." He answered all three of them.

"Children. Leave us." Ellaria said, her tone conveying there to be no argument. Obara looked ready to, but a hand from him and Nymeria stilled her lips. He thanked the gods for his second child not inheriting his temper. Oberyn did not know what he would do if all of them were as brash and hotheaded as his eldest.

Ellaria Sand was not the most beautiful woman he had lain with, not even the most beautiful he had seen. She had a wonderful body and brown hair and eyes. Her skin was the common tawny shade in Dorne. There was something eye-catching about her, but she was no great beauty.

Still, Oberyn loved her all the same. More than he had his other lovers.

"What are you doing Oberyn?" She asked when all of his children had left, Obara having to nearly be dragged.

"I am not sure what you mean." He replied, picking up the stick Harry had dropped.

"I know you are spontaneous, it is one of the qualities I love about you. But, making the boy your squire? I do not understand it." Ellaria said a little suspiciously.

"Understand it? Did you not see him?" Oberyn exclaimed excitedly.

"I saw a stubborn, scared boy being toyed with by guards."

Oberyn shook his head. He loved the woman, but she was no fighter. No killer. It took warriors to see the traits that made a good warrior, let alone appreciate them.

He saw that in Harry. She had said he was stubborn and that was true. Placid men did not fight. They swayed with the wind or were carelessly tossed aside by the waves. One had to be stubborn, at least a certain amount of it, to be great warriors. They needed to stubbornly trek forward towards death, to stare at it and not be cowed. People called it courage and bravery. And it was, but it was also stubbornness.

Yes, the boy had been scared. What ten-year-old child would not have been?

But, he had held his ground and attacked when he could have just as easily run. He was not intimidated. Harry did not run.

"That was not what I saw," Oberyn stated, "I saw a boy rage against three grown men. Stand his ground and refuse to be beaten. I saw a boy who was in pain and refused to yield, to bow, to give up. He was a stag cornered by snakes, but ready to gore them to death for his life." He finished recreating Harry's movements. It looked silly because the stick was so short compared to his height, but his movements were far more graceful than Harry's.

"With this. Three men with blunted steel and he held them off with this." Oberyn held up Harry's weapon.

"A fucking stick." He laughed, but stopped when his lover sighed and shook her head.

"I thought you would be pleased. You have taken a liking to him. What is the matter?" Oberyn asked, his grin turning into a questioning frown.

"In a way I am, but…"

"But?" he repeated as she let it hang. Ellaria sighed again, placing her hand against the stubble of his cheek. She was so sad considering he had just done the boy a great favor. There were many who would kill for the opportunity to be his squire and he gave it to a Baratheon.

"What is it my love?"

"You do not have a son. For all your children, for as wonderful as they all are and as much as you love them, you do not have a boy of your own. It is a nice gesture to make Harry your squire, but a small part of me was hoping you would see this as an opportunity to have one of your own." She said with a small smile.

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves, he is still a Baratheon." Oberyn made to pull away, but his paramour pulled him back into her embrace.

"What happened to not blaming sons for the sins of their fathers?" Ellaria quoted back to him. A tiny grin was on her face because she knew she got him. He resisted the urge to groan and settled for rolling his eyes at her.

"We can always have sons of our own. We certainly enjoy trying to make them." His lover smiled gently at his suggestion, but was not deterred.

"Even if we do have sons of our own, it will be nice for them to have a role model. Someone closer to their own age." She added the last part when he went to open his mouth.

"A Doran to their Oberyn."

He hated it when she made sense. But, Oberyn still had arguments of his own.

"He will learn everything he needs to as my squire. I will teach him to fight, to ride, and other things. What difference does it make if he learns as my squire or, as you so wish to put it, my son?" Oberyn asked, successfully pulling away and fiddling with the stick.

Everything she had said was true. He had no sons of his own. He loved his daughters as much as any parent could love their children. Oberyn did not mind they were not boys. They were as they were and he loved them for it.

But, there was that tiny, almost nonexistent little nagging at the back of his head, which all fathers probably had, that wanted a son.

"Sons love their fathers much more than squires their knights."

Finally, Oberyn did release a groan.

"And what am I supposed to do with him? He is much to old for me to tuck him in and read him stories."

"Teach him to fight, teach him to ride, teach him to drink, and when he is old enough take him to pillow houses so he may know the warmth of a woman. It is not what you do, Oberyn, but how you do it," Ellaria informed him.

"He may act unaffected, may even be as strong as I believe he pretends to be, but no child remains unchanged when ripped from their home. We all know why he is here. His family is part of the problem, you have a chance to make us part of the solution."

Oberyn sighed and continued to twirl the stick absently in his fingers. Moving helped him think. And he would need all his wits about him against Ellaria. They were not married, but she was family. He would not be his brother. He refused to be a man who just said 'No'. There would always be reason to his arguments with her.

It would be nice to have a son of his own, even if it was not one of his name. And Ellaria was correct…about everything. He could just not wrap his mind around treating the Baratheon as one of his own. The boy was a noble guest in their house, even if Oberyn really knew that Harry was essentially a hostage, and was entitled to a certain amount of respect. Even if her arguments made sense, Oberyn wanted to say 'no'. Having Harry fond of him, have him see Oberyn as his father had many advantages. It was also why he did not want to.

It was one thing to take advantage of a grown man, especially an enemy. But, to manipulate a child was a line that Oberyn was not willing to cross. To pretend to love Harry only to use him was not what Ellaria had meant, but that was the only reason Oberyn could come up with for him to even consider it. 'No', was the simple answer.

Yet…

"We shall see." He finally said, not having the heart to see the disappointed look on his lover's face had he answered differently. The half-smile of acceptance was already disheartening. He never wanted to see Ellaria sad, never wanted to see any of the women in his life sad. Oberyn wanted them to have all the happiness his sister should have had.

Even, if he had his misgivings

 **FLASHBACK END**

It was shortly after Oberyn decided he would mold Harry into a respectable Dornish prince. Part Doran and part Oberyn.

His brother was the one fit to be a lord, one who could take the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders and bear it without complaint. Oberyn could not teach Harry how to do that, but it turned out well, since he did not have to. The hospice was proof of that. Harry healing his brother without request was proof enough of that.

Oberyn was the fun one, the one to enjoy all the joys of life. He would teach Harry that. The second prince taught his future nephew to ride a sand-steed, a different beast from the 'noble' horses in the north. It was a horse of Dorne, one that could strive in the desert. It also had the temper to match. He had trained Harry to fight with the spear, the curved sword of Dorne, and even that exotic sword-glaive he had gotten for his nameday. Oberyn taught Harry life lessons. Though, if he were honest Harry had taught him a few lessons of his own. The boy was remarkably bright and wise for someone so young. It was not long until he had taken to Harry as a step-father would a step-son.

 _And he's finally old enough to take to pillow houses!_

He and Ellaria could hardly wait for the day they could take Harry. It would be like taking their own son. They would pick gorgeous women for him, women who could show him the ropes. Then, they would drink wine and listen to all that Harry had learned, maybe even give him advice of their own.

He was not married yet after all. Harry had his whole life for monogamy and serious relationships. Oberyn had meant what he said to Obara. Harry should be acting his age. Oberyn was three-and-ten when he had his first woman, Harry was a year behind and it was his duty as his liege lord to make sure Harry did not fall behind.

The young man was smooth, that much was true. The way he tempered Arianne was evidence of that. His niece was fiercely determined and of fiery temperament. The fact that he kept her close to him without being consumed by her was a shock to him. There had been other boys who, even if Arianne was not the most beautiful, had succumbed to her charms…when she was eight.

His niece was not the only one Harry had endeared himself to. The green eyes healer was dear to Oberyn as well. He loved his daughters, would not trade them for anything or wish for them to be anything but who they were. There was nothing he could not do with his daughters that he could not do with a son. But, still, he wanted one.

And the gods, in their silly way of muddling with mortals, had given him Harry.

It had not started out that way, but it was very hard to stop it from becoming so. Harry was just so polite, so likeable, and so damningly understanding. There were times Oberyn wanted to strangle him just to get a reaction. It was like the situation that had happened earlier. The man at the clinic had said he stood in a public street.

That was true.

But, it was the Prince of Dorne's public street. It was public in the fact that anyone could walk it. However, if they threatened the Prince's peace, they could be arrested and if they resisted arrest, killed. Harry knew that. Everyone old enough to think knew that. But, Harry had not had them arrested. He just scared them off. Nothing more than what equated to a small shove.

Oberyn did not know what he would have done if he had been in the same position. But, it certainly would not have just shooed the man away.

It was his love for Harry that had his temper up. A piece of parchment was crumpled in his hands. His first instinct was to burn it or tear it asunder. If the golden wax seal were not enough reason, the words written in on it would have been. But, he held in his anger. Oberyn would have patted himself on the back if he was not so incensed. In truth, he did not burn it because…

 _I do not want to hear my brother's whining that I burnt a missive from the king._

"Move aside, Hotah."

Areo Hotah was the captain of his brother's guard, a man who had traveled from Norvos with his brother's wife, Mellario, to serve the Prince of Dorne. He was a tall man, as tall as he was broad. He was pale, would have been the color of snow if not for the redness the Dornish sun gave him. His hair and trimmed beard were pure white, looking like clouds on his face. A long axe, with an axe head the size of the blade of his spear, was firmly upon his hands. Oberyn knew that though the man had not fought anyone with the intent to kill in a long while, he was still deadly.

"The Prince does not wish to be disturbed."

He respected Hotah. The man was loyal and a good warrior. Oberyn would have either crossed arms with him or joined him in it any day.

 _Just not this one._

"A missive has come from the king." Oberyn stated, holding up the unsealed parchment. He made sure the captain could see the seal.

"Let him in." Oberyn could hear his brother say. The dutiful Hotah stood to the side silently, allowing Oberyn to pass.

Doran Martell was older than his brother, about ten years older. His hair was almost completely silver from his age and the stresses of the kingdom. It had been black once. He had the traditional olive skin that all those of eastern Dorne had and was dressed in fine silks to denote his station. His brother sat in a lavish chair, not a throne, but a nice office chair that was comfortable even to the look. It had been made when his gout had started to irritate him, but now Doran kept it because of the extra comfort it provided.

"What need does the king have of Dorne?" His brother asked evenly. Oberyn knew he meant it derisively.

"Not Dorne. Harry." He replied, throwing the offensive letter on his brother's desk. Dorne only spared him a raised brow at the disrespect before taking the missive. Oberyn was chomping at the bit for his brother to say something, to do something. Even a small reaction would have been better than the stoic façade.

 _It's four sentences!_

"Hotah, shut the door," Doran waited until he heard the telltale sound of wood hitting against stone, "so Stannis Baratheon has crushed the Iron Fleet. King Robert bids Harry to take the armies of the Stormlands and subdue Island Harlaw before meeting with him at Pyke." His brother spoke calmly, telling Oberyn things he already knew.

"I can read. Can you believe the balls on that man?" Oberyn exclaimed. "Telling a boy who has not even felt the warmth of a woman to go to war! It is because he had heard of Harry's power and thinks it will grant him an easy victory!"

"He is his brother and king. What do you expect me to do about it?" Doran asked.

He wanted to tell his brother to forbid Harry to go. But, that would not do. Harry and Arianne were not married yet. Harry was still a Baratheon. The only ones who could have said anything negative about it would have been Stannis and Renly. And it was no secret they held no sway over Robert. Harry was the king's favorite brother. Of course, he would want glory for him. House Harlaw was defenseless. All the Iron Islands would be defenseless without their Iron Fleet. It would be an easy victory to add to Harry's belt.

That was the kind of man Robert was. He thought giving Harry a sword and a victory would remove the ill feelings Harry had about the lack of justice for Elia. Harry had not liked what had happened at the Red Keep, had made it known for everyone with ears. He bore his brother no ill will, but there was a lessening of love. And Robert would not stand for that from his favorite.

Oberyn wanted to tell Robert that Harry's magic was not for war. He healed people. But, that would only make Harry more valuable, more worshipped by those who fought. He could essentially keep an army at almost full strength, so long as not many died. In this single and, gods willing, short war Harry would be revered for all the lives he saved. Probably much more than any man who took lives.

Everyone could take a life. That was easy. But, not just anyone could save a life.

"Give me men and ships." He said, taking the only avenue available.

"No," Doran stated plainly, not even hesitating, "the Ironborn have not harmed Dorne. They will not harm Dorne. There are too many more convenient targets for them to raid than our mountains or deserts."

"He is your future good-son and prince of Dorne!" Oberyn said, shocked that his brother was so callous. But, that had hardly surprised him. His brother had always been a cautious man. He had taken Harry in to avoid war. However, ever since Mellario had left from his fostering of his second born to Lord Yronwood, his brother had taken into an entirely different level. He was almost paranoid in his cautiousness, hesitant to strike for fear of being struck.

"He healed you! He heals your people!"

"And I am grateful. I gave him the clinic. I allow him to keep whatever revenue he makes, only taking the tax owed. I hold no grudge against him. But, I will not allow Dorne to go to war." Doran said, eyeing his brother in a way Oberyn knew he had to tread carefully. They were brothers, but Doran was Ruling Prince.

"Besides, I have another task for you."

"If Harry goes to war, my daughter will go with him. She is his Sworn Shield. I am his liege lord. I must go as well." Oberyn said, turning away from his brother.

"I want you to go Braavos and arrange a marriage between Quentyn and Daenerys Targaryen."

The words had brought him to stop so quickly he almost fell on his face.

"Have you hit your head? Do you need Harry to look you over?"

"Have you lost your lust for vengeance?" Doran shot back. His brother was not that stupid, it was merely a reminder.

"Of course I still want justice. There are days I burn from it. But, offering your second child to the youngest Targaryen would be seen as an insult not favor."

"Unless I promise to back her brother's claim to the Iron Throne. When they return, we will fight for them. Then, we will be able to claim our justice from the Lannisters. Harry will see our way. We will have many years to work on him. His brother will not be king forever."

"Then his nephew will come next." Oberyn pointed out. It was just an obvious thing; he knew his brother had thought of it already.

"A nephew with Lannister blood. Harry has spoken of how he has no love for what the Lannisters did. If the boy proves as cruel as his grandfather or as inept as his father, we will not even need to bring Harry to see our way. The Lannister boy will do it for us. And, with his sister held here in Dorne, Viserys will be easier to be brought to heal."

It was a good plan. A lot of it hedge on the Lannister spawn being cruel. But, with his parentage Oberyn had no doubt he would be. His mother was a power hungry shrew, a jilted woman from her husband's infamous ways of whoring and drinking. She would turn her son away from Robert. Tywin was a cruel man with only thoughts of his legacy, of his own power. He would aim to turn the boy into a true Lannister. A dumb nephew Harry would probably be able to live with, but a cruel one?

The sun would cease to rise first.

And it was not another daughter of Dorne going to a dragon, but a dragon coming to Dorne. They had killed the dragons before. The last time they had given one of their princesses…it had not ended well.

He had no real reason to argue against it. Viserys was still young, younger than Harry. He would not be able to amass an army across the Narrow Sea easily. Oberyn had been across the Narrow Sea, been a sellsword. Hells, he had established his own company of sellswords. All that mattered was gold. It would take Viserys years to get enough to buy the loyalty of a reputable mercenary troupe.

 _If the gods are merciful, it will take him at least a decade._

That was not so much for Viserys' sake as it was Oberyn's. It would allow him and his family to bring Harry around to their kind of thinking. To see why they did what they did. Ten years was a long time to work, but Oberyn knew he would need every day of it. Not only to convince Harry, but to assuage his own guilt.

It was a betrayal to his squire of the highest order, to the person who had done much for his family and people. Plotting against his family. Men had been killed for less, had wanted him dead for less. If he failed to convince Harry, for as jovial as the young man normally was, Oberyn truly feared it would come down to one of their deaths.

He did not know if he would be able to bring himself to do it.

"I will agree with this plan." Oberyn sighed, regret and guilt already starting to build within him. "The gods help me, I will do this."

If only not for betraying him, Oberyn would say 'fuck the king' and take Harry with him. He believed Harry would like Braavos. It was a large city full of trade and always had something going on. They could watch the bravos do their Water Dance, tour all the best brothels that Oberyn knew, drink at every tavern, and see the grand structure that was the Iron Bank or warrior statue that stood over the entrance the city.

"You will be meeting Ser Darry. The Sealord of Braavos will serve as witness and officiate." Doran said, pulling out a scroll from his desk.

Such a small piece of parchment for the large amount of treachery he was committing.

His guilt was enflamed by his imagination. He could already see the look on Harry's face, the hurt in his eyes and his mouth open in shock as if he had run him through with his spear. It would have been kinder to run him through. Harry would not have lived to see his betrayal.

Oberyn was not the most just, most noble, or pious man. There were many off the top of his head that he could name that would be heralded above him in those regards. But, he did have his own code of honor. And he broke it the moment he took the vellum from his brother.

 _For Elia, you do this for Elia. Harry will understand. You will make him understand._

Even as he tried to convince himself, the words sounded hollow. They did nothing to assuage the creature in his gut that threatened to claw its way out.

"I need gold." Oberyn said suddenly.

"What for?" Doran asked, stopping mid-stroke of his quill.

"Harry goes to war. Obara will go with him. They will need armor." It was the least he could do. He could not give them a ship, could not give them an army. Oberyn couldn't even send guards with them. The very least he could do was make sure they had armor.

His daughter had the essentials, his gift to her for becoming a Sworn Shield. She needed it to perform her duties. Not so much because he believed Harry to be in danger, but because bearing a shield and a spear tended to make people think twice. He would complete it now and give Harry the same. Armor fit for those that came from a noble House of Dorne.

"You could always tell her 'no'. I can have her thrown in the dungeons if you like." Doran offered, but Oberyn scoffed at the suggestion.

It would have been a slight to Harry, even if he would understand it. It would be an insult to Obara. And she would not understand. Worse, she would never forgive him.

Her father hiding her behind him, forbidding her from doing her duty, taking away her dream…even her love for him would not allow her to forgive him. His love for her would not allow him to take it away.

"I will already have…great difficultly facing him for what I am about to do. Now you ask me to shame my eldest daughter? I love you dearly brother, but you overestimate how much." It was with a stupendous amount of effort Oberyn did not sneer, spit, or growl. His tone was even. He would have been proud, if he did not feel like stabbing himself in the foot.

"It is for our sister."

"It is because it is for our sister I do this. There would be nothing else you could use against me to agree."

Doran held his hands up in surrender before scribbling on a blank piece of parchment. He poured wax at the bottom, a place to apply his seal, and stamped it with his signet ring. Doran took hold of it and froze.

"You think me callous?" He asked. Oberyn replied with a scoff.

"You are wrong, Oberyn. I too have love for Harry. As you have said, he has healed me and he is to be my good-son. He has done much for our people. But, I cannot allow our people to go to war. We have to conserve our strength, wait for the most opportune moment to strike. When that time comes, you want to take Harry and march directly into the Westerlands to drag Tywin Lannister and all his kin to burn at the stake, have him drawn and quartered, I will not stop you. But, we must wait brother. A snake only strikes once because that is all that is needed to kill its prey."

Oberyn knew it was meant to make him understand. To help him better accept what was to take place. When he saw his brother stand with ease, to rise without assistance of his chair, it only made Oberyn angrier.

"Embrace me brother and let us end this quarrel."

He moved around the desk and embraced his brother. Tightly. Oberyn felt Doran's hair tickle at his nose as he leaned in close to whisper.

"Remember why you can do this Doran. Remember why this does not hurt more."

"I thank the gods every day, Oberyn. I thank them everyday, that I did not listen to you the day Jon Arryn came with our uncle's bones and a boy."

 _Just twist the knife why don't you…_


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Life is hectic. R &R please, it is appreciated. But I am alive.**

 **I'd like to think I responded to everyone who left a question in my inbox or left one in a review. If I didn't I apologize, but feel free to post it again to my inbox or in a review.**

 **Again, life is hectic so I don't know when the next chapter is going up. I'll answer your questions in your inboxes if applicable.**

 **Another reason it's taking so long, is because my muse is a fickle one. She is constantly giving me ideas, but not for any of the existing stories. Hence, the rather poorly accepted DC X-Over. I literally have 20k words on Harry being a part of Ghiscar. Now, she's pushing me to do a Harry as Lord of House Stark.**

 **In hindsight, it does seem the most likely House Harry would be in. I know the Lannisters are the Lions, but Starks are extremely Gryffindor-ish. Lannisters are Slytherin, but like Draco Slytherin with the exception of Tyrion. Tywin only cares about his family name (blood for Harry Potter reference) and Cersei's schemes are half-baked (very Draco-ish).**

 **This chapter is for the reviewer who said that they wished I gave Arianne more airtime. They were right. Arianne may seem OOC, but as with Yara, remember that she was still really young when Harry came to Dorne. The Arianne we know from the books is in her twenties. She was like seven or eight when Harry fostered.**

 **To the reviewers who said I brought the magic on too fast or it is too much, I have to agree. GRRM has stated that he did not want magic to saturate his book. Even if this is a crossover, the primary world is ASOIAF and I want to follow that trend. It'll be explained in a later chapter.**

 **So, R &R and please feel free to send ideas or post them in comments.**

 **Cheers,**

 **~Jin**

 **289 AC – Sunspear**

Arianne Martell – Princess of Dorne

Five years was a long time to know someone, to formulate an opinion about them.

Arianne was not perfect. It was a fact she knew well. She was human and accepted the fact that her humanity made her imperfect by definition. She was as prone to making bad choices and decisions as anyone else. The difference between her and many others was the fact she was willing to change, to correct her mistakes.

Harry was the perfect example of that.

When he had arrived at Sunspear all those years ago Arianne would admit that she had been quite taken with him. Pretty boys have always been a weakness of hers, even when she had been young. And Harry was without a doubt beautiful. He had the most brilliant green eyes she had ever seen with an easy, lopsided grin that simply beckoned welcome.

For a split second, she had felt lucky to have a boy who would grow into a handsome man as her betrothed. Of course, that had been offset with who his family was.

Everyone had told her of how cruel the Baratheon king was. How King Robert had allowed the death of her aunt and cousins to go unpunished. She could not understand how anyone could let such a thing go without justice. Not only were her cousins' children, but her aunt was also a princess. There was supposed to be a certain level of decorum, even among enemies.

Arianne knew what she had looked like when she had been young. She was fat. Red spots marred her cheek from her affliction with it earlier in the year. She was ugly. And she prayed to the Seven every day to make her beautiful.

But she also cursed them for giving her a betrothed who would most likely be as cruel as his brother. Which honestly aggravated her because he was very nice to look at.

She would have raged if it has been so.

But, the gods had proven to favor her. Harry was nothing like his brother, did not agree with his brother's actions on allowing the slaying of women and children.

Arianne had given it a few moons, observed at a comfortable distance to see how genuine his charity was. She kept him close enough to keep his attention, enough to keep his courtesies on her.

It would not do for her betrothed to fall in love with some other girl because he thought her frigidly unwelcoming or because of her preconceived notions that may have been wrong.

But, at the start, kept him far enough away to detach herself from him if he had proved deceptive. If he was cruel, she would still marry him, still do her duty to her House, but he would be her husband in name only.

Paramours were not strange in Dorne. Many ladies in power had them. They were husbands in all but name.

She wanted the love her father and mother had. They may have separated, but it was not because they did not love each other. Her mother could not adjust to the life of the west, could not accept that their world had its rules, and became unhappy with their lifestyle.

Her mother may have left, but there was no doubt they loved each other. She had seen how they looked at each other, seen them when they had been so happy and in love once, and she wanted that for herself one day as well.

It was a relief of immeasurable proportions that Arianne had come to find him unlike the stories people told of his brother.

People saw the Healer; the man who helped them with their sickness and illness. The children loved him for his stories and the fatherly aura he exuded. But, that was not what Arianne saw when she looked at him.

She did not much care if Harry was a healer. He spent too much time in the clinic for her liking. Especially since it had become fully staffed a year ago.

Whenever she looked at Harry, Arianne remembered the time her mother had left. She remembered how she had locked herself in her room, allowing no one to enter.

She remembered how Harry came every day, spending hours outside her bedchambers to tell her the stories he did to the children or just tell her about his day. His comfort at such a trying time, his unwavering support had been welcomed even if she had never said so.

From the very first moments they had met, he had treated her like a princess. Like a beautiful girl who deserved all his free time. Arianne remembered how if Harry weren't in the training yard or the clinic, he would walk through the keep or the Water Gardens with her on his arm. He did not shy away or look at her with pity when she wanted his kisses, when she had started to become curious. He had his measure of propriety, not wanting them step out of bounds for their age, but he never failed to give her at least some physical intimacy even when she was ugly.

Harry never allowed her to push his boundaries too far, did not give her everything she wanted. He dictated how far and fast they went. Arianne found the challenge exhilarating. She enjoyed pushing to see how much she could get from him, always reaching a little further than before.

But, there was a small part of her that was aggravated he dictated such terms. She had been a woman for almost six moons and no manner of her hinting would get the point across.

She wanted them to be abed.

Her cousin and her had experiment and Arianne knew the pleasure such things could bring. She wanted to share that with Harry. Her purity of body did not match the depravity of her mind and it was starting to drive her truly insane. They were already to be married, what difference would it have made if they started in the pleasure that would come to them anyway a bit early.

But, no. Harry was resilient. A mighty mountain amidst the gale. No matter the coercion, no mountain would bow before the wind.

She had thought there another girl in his life, someone who taught him how to please a woman. Because he seemed much too knowledgeable about the subject. His kisses were far too practiced and his hands knew too much of what to do. It would not have been too much of a surprise to find someone had taught him. An older servant girl perhaps.

But, he never gave a hint to such things. Which was good for the staff of Sunspear. She would have quickly removed anyone who stood between them.

Harry did not need any woman other than her. If he wanted another woman to supplement their bed, Arianne would invite her cousins for his exploration. They were very pretty after all, much prettier than her. She was coming into her own; the gods had deemed it appropriate to grant her prayers. But, there was still some ways to go before she outmatched them in regards to beauty.

He would be her husband and the world would believe him pleased with her. They would have to be united. They would not be a regular lord and lady. They were royalty of Dorne and the other kingdoms would not see any clear divide between them.

Arianne loved her cousins well. If she was to share her husband with anyone, it would them. They were family and he would be kept within the family. For either of them to have a paramour outside of that, it would make their union seem weak. It would show they were divided and there was a weakness to be exploited.

Just as her uncle Oberyn had proven with the late Lord Yronwood.

She cared a great deal for Harry. Arianne could see herself coming to love him completely one day. He was pleasing to her. But, even she knew that Harry was weak of heart.

He cared too much. He could fight as well as any she had ever seen, but he lacked ruthlessness. Arianne would have to pick up his slack. She would have to balance him, become the necessary evil to his goodness. And she was more than fine with the prospect.

Arianne would save him from his goodness.

However, there were things that even she as a princess could not protect him from.

Robert Baratheon, King of the Iron Throne, had summoned her dear Harry to war against the Ironborn. Because that was what Harry was…hers. And the Usurper sought to take him.

She could have cared less about the Ironborn and what they had done to Lannister territory. As far as Arianne was concerned, it could not have happened to a better people. They had no problem killing Dornish women and children. Why should she care if their own suffered?

It was not as if the Ironborn would ever raid Dorne. The mountains and deserts of the land would make it very difficult for them to accomplish such a thing. The sea was full of other dangers that made it difficult for sailors who knew them like the back of their hand to navigate. She knew that the Ironborn were renowned sailors, but it was an awfully amount of risk for them for so little gain. Especially when there were more convenient targets such as the Westerlands and the Reach.

Even more disturbing than King Robert summoning her betrothed to war that he was unneeded for, was the fact her father did nothing to stop it. She would not have minded as much if the strength of Dorne marched behind him. It would only further endear Harry to the people and she knew that many would die first before they allowed any harm to come to their precious Healer.

But, Harry was to lead the Stormlands, a land that he would never belong to again. Not if she had her way, which she would. She would not trust any of the Storm lords with a whore from the pillow houses, let alone a future prince of Dorne.

It was unneeded to say that the princess of Dorne was not pleased. The temptation to throw a tantrum had been strong. She wanted to rage and shout so loud that the Usurper would hear and feel her ire across the vast distance between them.

However, Arianne knew it would do no good. It would have been a waste of energy. Energy she could spend weaving her plot to demonstrate just exactly what she thought about Robert Baratheon. There was one thing she learned from Harry. Something he had inadvertently made her realized with how he had dealt with the Faith.

Never show direct opposition. Never show your true strength. Especially when outnumber and underpowered.

She did not have the power to hurt Robert Baratheon or Balon Greyjoy, who she blamed as much as any other for taking Harry away from Dorne.

Yet.

She would one day. And when that day came, they would rue the day they crossed her. One day, they would regret their actions that put her Harry in harm's way.

Arianne had a list. A list of names she kept in her head of all those who crossed her in some way. It could have been as small as the times she had been a child and other girls had whispered insults behind her back. Or, it was as big as the Faith who labeled her future-husband a heretic.

In fact, they were very high on her list, the very first name that she would make an example of. They had dared to do harm to someone dear to her and would learn why it was not a smart idea to cross her.

They would all learn.

But, they were not her immediate concern. They would get what came to them in time. Arianne's present concern was Harry.

She knew Harry. He could fight well, was trained by the Red Viper of Dorne, and there were very few men who could boast to be more dangerous than her uncle. Men who did in the past were with their ancestors.

If Harry were just to go into a duel, she would not have been so concerned. There were people who already heralded Harry as one of the best swordsman of his age in Dorne; Oberyn chief among them. Her uncle would have put him into the ring against any other squire and some knights he was so confident in Harry's ability. Besides, Arianne could always take steps on her part to ensure his victory if need be.

It was almost comical how a few drips of a concoction could slow or weaken the heartiest of men.

War was a completely different matter entirely. Arianne was no master of war or tactics, but even she knew that no plan survived the battlefield. There were too many variables, too many factors that could not truly be accounted for or measured.

It was an almost nonexistent relief that at least Obara would go with him. Her cousin would not allow anything to happen to Harry lightly. If not because she had a measure of respect for him, then because it would bring into question her ability. And that was something Obara would not have.

Her cousin wanted to be known as the best spear of Dorne, as her father was. If something happened to Harry while in her charge, she would turn into a mockery and be heralded as a failure.

Arianne made her way through the halls of the Sun Tower. She wanted to sprint through the halls, but it would have been unfitting for a princess. Plus, her sandals were not exactly made for such tasks. It had felt like an eternity to make her way to Harry's rooms, easily identifiable by Obara standing guard outside with spear in hand.

Her cousin had taken to studying Areo Hotah, her father's captain of the guard, emulating how Aero would stand and glare at anything that passed by intimidatingly and with suspicion. Arianne hoped Hotah's zealous loyalty would rub off on Obara as well. It would be a load off Arianne's mind to know at least one person would fervently guard Harry. The gods only knew how Harry would survive in a war.

"Greetings cousin." Arianne said warmly to Obara. Her cousin grunted a response in return, jutting her chin out in greeting. Most would have been put out as such a…lazy greeting, but Arianne knew that was just Obara's way. The only thing the woman seemed to be excited about was fighting and riding.

"How fares my betrothed with the news?" It would be good to know his state of mind before she approached. Arianne would know the best way to angle herself.

"Calm." Came the unexpected reply.

"Calm?" Arianne asked again, as if she had not heard correctly the first time.

"Yes. Eerily calm."

"Are you afraid?" She questioned.

"I would be stupid not to be. A healthy amount of fear is advisable when death is the price." Obara replied.

"I do not normally know you to be such a defeatist." She finally said.

"It is not defeatist," Obara hisses, insulted at the very thought, "but balancing possibilities."

A small part of Arianne wanted to drive the point home that Obara better not fail in her duty. But, rationality reminded her that Obara was her blood and she loved her. Arianne could not very well put Harry's life above her. However, neither could she justify valuing Obara's life above Harry's. It posed quite the conundrum.

"There is also the possibility that you and Harry shall emerge from this victorious. You will bring homes spoils and bards will sing tales of you. Just as you have always dreamed. Do not focus on the many possibilities and instead focus on your goal. I have the utmost confidence that you and Harry shall return not only whole, but victorious. Positive thinking cousin. Positive thinking and your skills shall see you through the days to come."

It wasn't a total lie. Arianne did have confidence that Obara and Harry would return to Dorne. However, she had doubts. Small voices that whispered the worst into her mind. A mind that used its vivid imagination to once supply her exotic visuals of her and Harry intertwined also fueled the horrid images of Harry's body twisted and cold. Bloody and dismembered.

But, she would never speak such thoughts aloud. It made the possibility all the more real and Arianne would not have such a reality come to pass. Even the gods were not so cruel as to give her a beautiful and warm future husband, only to take him away before they were even wed.

Or, maybe they were and it was all hopeful thinking.

The resolve to sequester Harry somewhere was becoming more and more enticing.

"I thank you for your words cousin. It has helped in some small measure. But, go and fulfill your original purpose. I know very well that it was not I you mean to console."

Arianne took a breath to calm herself. It would not do to rush inside assuming the worst. The last thing she wanted to do was start a fight when her sole goal was to help put herself at ease. To give herself piece of mind that Harry was okay and would remain that way.

"On a side note," Obara said as she looked away, "be wary my father. He may have gotten a notion that you and Tyene seek to become intimate with Harry…at the same time."

That solved to lighten the gloom that threatened to stifle Arianne.

"And where may he have gotten that idea?" Arianne's lips curled into a smirk.

"I may have mentioned such a thing in passing." Obara admitted with a small cough at the end. Arianne crossed her arms with a raised brow and waited for more words to flow.

"Ugh…he was pestering me about the subject. The man had the gall to advise me to ask you for your permission to carry Harry's child. The entire embarrassing conversation in the middle of the hospice nonetheless. I had to give him another target for his inane meddling."

Arianne shook her head with a small smile. Such a thing did sound exactly like something her uncle would do. In jest perhaps, but Harry was the closest thing Oberyn had to a son. He loved and trusted Harry with his life, what more the lives of his daughters. It showed in how he did not stop Obara from venturing with Harry, but providing them with the tools needed to survive.

She was not opposed to the thought of Harry laying with Obara. It would have been better if Arianne had gotten to him first, but the basis of the idea did not strike jealousy with her. Any other woman to try and take Harry, who would have the gall to even ask Arianne for her permission would have met a truly horrifying fate.

She would fight the woman knife to knife, cut out the organ that the woman would use to tempt her Harry. But, Arianne loved her cousins well. If they wished to share in her love for him, she would not stop them. If anything it may have been funny to see if Harry had enough 'love' to satisfy herself and her cousins.

"I shall keep an eye out cousin. But, I will expect you to bring something back from your travels for fixing this mess you have made."

"Firstly, it was not too far the stretch of the imagination that you and Tyene would be plotting something to have Harry rest in both of your beds. You both share everything after all." That much was true. Arianne had Tyene had shared much. Their first kiss was to each other. They both experimented with the pleasures of the flesh. Not at all harmful when they were as curious as they were. But, she wasn't about to let Obara off the hook that easily.

"Secondly, what mess are you referring to?"

"Cousin, cousin, cousin," Arianne sighed as if she were about to explain something to a child, "you have conveniently pointed your father in my direction. And unlike you, who will be traipsing through the Seven Kingdoms, I will be a convenient target for his teasing. As much as I love my dear uncle, even you must admit he can be quite a pain once he has started. I demand compensation for time and damages cause."

"What damages?" Obara asked, knowing the answer was to be something absurd.

"To my patience and sanity." Arianne replied matter-of-factly.

"You try my own," her cousin growled to herself, "by the Seven be on about your way woman."

She smirked lightly, before hiding away her amusement. She had teased her good cousin enough. It also helped to alleviate the burden placed upon her own shoulders. Getting a rise out of Obara always served to brighten her day. Partially because it was easy and partially because Obara was so very entertaining to rile up.

"You know," Arianne said as she started past Harry's sentry, "you both will be gone for more moons than I would care for. Long moons on the sea or the road. If you were to take…comfort in one another, I would not be adverse so such things."

"Not you too." Obara groaned. "I have no need for the jesting at my expense cousin."

"It is no jest. I would rather it be you than some whore or village girl by the way side. It is no secret what men get up to during war, times spent so far away from home. To know that it was my cousin, whom I love dearly, to keep his attention would give me peace of mind." Arianne replied softly.

"You need not worry about Harry's attention being lavished upon whores. He could have the best whore in all of Sunspear at his disposal, yet he does not. Hells, he could have all the whores at his service with a nod of his head. My father on many occasions has invited Harry to travel with him and Ellaria. He has yet to accompany them. You need not worry about his eye or cock straying from the self-imposed drought."

They were facts Arianne knew well. For even as she was far more than ready, Harry had yet to show any interest in plundering her own fields. And she was more than willing to have him drill her well. Arianne had done everything short of pinning parchment to her gowns with instructions.

"The option is there cousin. I would not have someone use something against him when he does take his place by my side as prince. Should your own union bear fruit, it is with a clear heart and mind that I know you would never hold a circumstance hostage against him. Or me."

No more words had to be said. Obara gave a small sigh and nod. Arianne left her with the same. She wished she could have given a parting shot. It would serve her right for sending her father in Arianne's direction. The man would be insufferable.

More nosy than a servant girls her uncle was.

Both rooms, the bedchambers and receiving room, were sparsely furnished. There were no elaborate silk drapes, tapestries, or other finery. It was rather spartan in décor. There was a simple wooden table with four chairs in the receiving room, a place to drink wine while seated comfortably, and a rather plain looking rug. The bedchamber was much of the same style: a large bed at the center, a bureau for tunics, breeches, and robes, and a handmade rack to place his sword. There was a smaller table with two chairs, which allowed for more intimate company.

Arianne had been inside before and every time she had the same thought, _I am definitely in charge of the decorations for our chambers when we marry._

Harry sat at one of the chairs, running a stone across a sword her Uncle Oberyn had commissioned for him. It was in the same style of the sword King Robert had gifted Harry, but none of the flamboyant flair. It lacked the major engraving on the blade, a simple fuller close to the spine taking its place. The handle was also replaced, being made of Dornish Yew with thick brass accents that wrapped around it in a spiral. Instead of a snakehead pommel, the end of the hilt elegantly mushroomed.

The weapon was simple, clean, and in her opinion, certainly suit Harry better than the ostentatious monstrosity of a sword his brother had given him. The sword was such a gilded and blatant display of wealth, it in no way suited Harry. It did not portray his true character, but rather what his brother wished for him to be. She would raise no objection to him keeping his brother's sword as a show piece for the rest of their days.

Well, Arianne may have preferred it to collect dust in the armory because it truly was an eyesore.

"Are you attempting to paint a portrait?" Harry's voice cut her from her musings. His face was blank. Just as Obara had said, an eerie calm over him. But, she could hear the teasing air.

It was a good sign.

"I have to make sure the artist captures my vision of you correctly. A painting to be made when you return victorious from the campaign." She responded in kind.

Humor helped with her nerves. The nerves that were so absent in her betrothed. Nerves that should have been there, that would have been a small comfort if only to know that it was not only herself who seemed to be worried.

Harry just smiled at her understandingly, setting his sword up on its rack. He motioned to the chair opposite of him and she made to take it. But, at the last moment decided against it. Instead, she gracefully placed herself in his lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"I am not too heavy for you, am I?"

It was a trick question. Harry was not stupid enough to say 'yes' and would have no reason to ask her to remove herself. His intelligence shone when his only reply was to place a small kiss on her cheek.

That sat for a moment. A small, peaceful moment that lacked the awkwardness often associated with silence. It was a fact she liked about him. How nothing needed to be said. That unlike with some others, she could just enjoy his comforting presence.

But, the feeling in her stomach would not allow her to be quiet for long.

"I am tempted to hit you over the head and have you locked away in some tower until the war with the Greyjoys is over." Arianne admitted offhandedly. She could have been talking about the weather for all the severity in her manner. Harry guffawed good naturedly.

"And what would I be doing in this tower while half the realm fought?" He questioned with a grin.

"Oh, I'm sure I could keep you busy well enough." She sighed coyly, garnering another laugh. Which was ironic as she was in no way jesting.

"My brother has bid me take command of the Stormlands. Renly is yet a man and has never had a mind for war or strategy–"

"Why not have your other brother take command of them? Or the King himself." Arianne fired back. Harry took her free hand in his and looked at her understandingly.

"Robert is king. He cannot be shown to be favoring the Stormlands and if he leads them into battle, that is what it will look like. Stannis already controls the Navy and is Lord of Dragonstone, it would be unbecoming to give Stannis command." Harry explained.

"You belong to Dorne." Arianne replied with a tad more heat in her voice than she had intended.

"To me." She finished softly.

"We are yet to be actually married." Harry answered, "until that time, I am still a Baratheon."

"You will be a Martell." Arianne stood abruptly. She had no intention to, but her feet had a mind of their own as they caused her to pace.

"When we are married I am to marry into your family, become your consort–"

"Prince." She corrected him, finding her way back to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips. "You will be a prince of Dorne. My prince."

"Call it what you like. I know, the world knows, what I am to be. I understood that. No matter what we call it." He said calmly.

"If it does not matter what we call it, then we shall call it 'prince'." Her tone brokered no argument.

"Very well," Harry acquiesced. "Regardless, as of this moment, I am still a Baratheon. The only one fit to lead the Stormlands."

"We could change that. It is only but a few steps to the Sept. We could get married right now."

She had always wanted a grand wedding, one befitting her station. All of Dorne would be in attendance. Lords and ladies from beyond, even from families they did not like, would travel far to attend and suck up to them. It would be a façade, but they would play nice and bring gifts of insurmountable value.

But, Arianne would give it all up if it meant Harry would stay. She would make him see the gods on their wedding night, learn everything that would make him see his brain. If he would only stay.

But, he wouldn't. There was also the fact that her father would be rather crossed with her if they just went an eloped. A wedding, at least the days leading up to and following, were prime dates for discussing business of the realm. Trade and water agreements could be forged as everyone would be gathered.

If nothing else, the look on Harry's face at the very suggestion was enough of an answer for her.

"Every woman deserves a great wedding. If we are to ever have a daughter, I would wish the same for her." It was difficult for Arianne to argue with his statement. Especially, when his reasoning was so sweet.

"And you have obviously never met my brother Stannis. If we were to elope, he would find some way to take it as a slight against his person."

Arianne laughed.

She had never met Stannis, but Harry had told her enough stories about all his brothers to know that he was probably right. They were enjoyable stories. For as much as she hated the man Robert Baratheon became, she could not fault Harry enjoying what childhood they had together.

Her mirthful laughter was but a blip in time. A tiny joy. Because as quickly as it came, it left her.

"You will come back…safe and whole." It was a statement of fact, one that brokered no room for argument.

"I will." He replied, his own tone of assurance easing the heavy stone that had taken residence in her stomach. But, it did nothing for the tears that wanted to escape her. They threatened to do so. The salt and water all but burst forth from her eyes of their own accord.

But, she would not cry.

She would not allow any of his final moment before his departure be one of sorrows. Harry would only see her smiling and laughing. And, if his damn stubbornness would end, moaning in rapture above, below, or beside him. He would only know peace and happiness until he sailed away. The gods knew what horrors would await him upon the sea or on land on the Iron Islands. Arianne would give him the fondest of memories to tide him until his return.

He would return.

Robert Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy had better pray to any and all gods that Harry returned to her. Or, she would make it the sole reason of her existence to demonstrate exactly why all Seven Hells had no fury like a woman scorned.


	5. Chapter 5

**289 AC – The Summer Sea**

Harry Baratheon

War.

It was something he knew well. He had become very intimate with war and all its bastardy. His body was fairly young, but his mind was not.

Visions of death and despair could still be recalled with a crystal clarity that would chill the blood. Bodies in full animation only to fall like a puppet with its strings cut. Bloody gashes that poured out life like a macabre fountain. And those were just the bodies of those that participated.

Dozens of innocents were caught in the crossfire. More than Harry would have like to remember had been maimed beyond repair. No one was untouched in the end.

Even when all the killing was over, the war was not finished. There was still the aftermath; punishments to be handed out like candy and graves that were to be filled. It would be years until a sense of normalcy could be established within their community. But, even then, it had not been the same.

The ghastly memories that could be trigger by any number of places would not allow it.

After, he had lived his life as peacefully as possible. He took care of his wives and of his children. He spent all his life in peace helping those who could not help themselves, giving them a better life than he had started with. But, none of the normalcy or good that he did would erase the fact Harry had learned about himself during the war.

He was good at it.

Once the hesitation left, when Harry could not stand to be pushed any longer, like breathing to a drowning man who had finally reached the surface, killing came so easily.

There were few things he could do better than take life. That he remembered distinctly. It was a part of him. A unique set circumstances and skills he possessed to make him a proper killer. It was as if his whole life had been building to that.

That is what it had been back then.

Killing.

Not fighting, as many bragged they did. Fighting implied quarter, rules of engagement, and codes of conduct.

There was only one rule Harry had back then.

Don't die.

There had been only one code of conduct.

If you did happen to die, take as many bastards with you.

That had been a lifetime ago. The circumstance had been different then. There had been people who forced him into a corner. And even the most meek animal would fight when it had nowhere to run.

When news of some dark-lord or dark-lady attempted to fill the void Voldemort had left, Harry struggled against the urges. That had not changed. For a long time, he resisted the urges of violence, resisted taking the easy way. He wanted to construct, to heal. Not destroy.

 _But, sometimes, to save a life you have to take one._

Or a few hundred as wars were known to do.

Then or now, he took no pleasure in it. It wasn't like playing the harp or being able to paint. Those were talents Harry could delve into with zest if he had ability to do them well. But, his talent was one of high costs. He traded his sweat for another's blood.

Harry may not have liked it, but he was good at killing.

Not that anyone knew that. They all knew he could fight, could go round-and-round in the training yard, but everyone only knew the other side of him. The nice side. The helpful healer who everyone knew and loved.

They had never seen the dark side of the moon. Only Harry knew what was there. And he did not like it. There was no telling what others would think when he unleashed what hid beyond their sight.

It was why he was resolved in obtaining Lord Harlaw's surrender without bloodshed. He would give the aged Iron Lord an opportunity to end things peacefully. A much better outcome than the Ironborn Lord could expect from anyone else. It was said that Lord Rodrik Harlaw was a well-read and intelligent man. Harry hoped he would see the wisdom in taking the knee.

He could care less if others would call him gutless or cowardly. Harry knew his brother Robert had sent him to Harlaw in hopes of an easy victory. His brother's thinking was strategic and well-thought out. Which did not surprise Harry. Of all the subjects they had been forced to learn, war and battles were the lessons Robert enjoyed the most. While not as savvy as Stannis, Robert had a good mind for war.

The island was large and due to the deforestation in ages past, Harlaw would have no problem supporting the amount of men he had with him. Ten-thousand Stormlanders would descend like locust upon an island that could raise three-thousand at full strength, but with the decimation of the Iron Fleet would probably have a thousand or less. Robert thought it was the best way to have Harry blooded, something that his brother expected from a respectable man.

If Harry had his way, his brother would be sorely disappointed. He could understand Robert, knew why his eldest brother wished for Harry to make a name for himself. That did not mean he agreed.

But, all that was worry for a later time. If the wind and sea agreed with his ships, it would still be a week's sail until they reached land and at least a day to set up their encampment. There was plenty of time for Harry to think of how he would handle the parley with Lord Harlaw.

A more pressing concern was Obara doing her best to wear a hole in the very nice rug inside the captain's quarters of the ship Harry sailed on. It was one of Lord Estermont's, his grandfather on his mother's side. The man was too old and weary to sail and lent his best ship to Harry for the duration of the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Greenstone was one of the two islands that gave homage to Storm's End. As an island, even a rather small one, they fielded some of the best ships. Lord Estermont's flagship was the _Leatherneck_ , an appropriate name. It was a ship of speed and maneuverability, meant to effortlessly navigate the perils of Shipbreaker's Bay. A craft fit for only true sailors.

It was a double-decked war galley with three sails; a square sail at the front and middle, with a triangular sail at the aft. Both decks had a hundred oars on either side, with the quarter deck being surrounded by scorpions with a catapult at the bow. The ramming head was a very sharp nosed turtle with eyes that appeared to glare at all that was in front of it. She may not have been the most intimidating, especially with a giant green tortoise at the sails, but she was nonetheless a formidable vessel.

The levies slept in hammocks strung three high, from the middle to the front of the ship. A few knights took up the middle of both decks, putting themselves between the captain's quarters and rest of the men. It was an unneeded gesture, but was tradition. The captain's quarter was where Harry and Obara, through her own invitation, stayed.

His grandfather had obviously had the quarter built with luxury and comfort in mind. It took up the stern of first deck and rose from the quarterdeck like a cabin. There were stained glass windows on the side that faced the quarterdeck with plain windows that look towards the sea. The upper deck was a common area. It was small and could only hold four people around the bolted round table and chairs, but it was much more than the other men got. The bottom floor was the berthing area with a corner for work.

The berthing area housed a much grander be than Harry expected, not at all the regular size of beds on a ship. It was comfortable for two people and Harry had an idea what his grandfather had in mind when he had the ship built. Chief among those ideas was that his grandfather used the ship as a way to entertain a mistress. There was no other reason for such luxuries on a ship that was the size of a war galley.

Regardless of what his grandfather had used it for, Harry was glad that it did have a bed big enough for two. He would have given it up to Obara out of some sense of chivalry and she would have made him sleep on it because it was befitting. Then, Harry would have felt bad about it and then no one would have used the bed.

To the fore of the lower deck was the writing station where a captain would normally log the activities. Harry had no intention of needlessly scribbling the minute details when they would be of no use to anyone.

The area they did use was the staging area. It contained a multi-layered weapons rack with a smaller cubicle to store armor in an organized manner. Harry was glad one was available, because he would have been very hesitant to just haphazardly throw his or Obara's armor on the ground. They were very expensive gifts after all. In typical Oberyn fashion, he had gone overboard, spent much more than lords or knights did for the smiths' work.

It truly was an abhorrent amount of coin for two sets of armor. Harry believed Oberyn only spent as much as he had to irritate Doran. They had been rather frosty with each other lately. Even when Harry and Obara were to board.

Both had showed and put on polite smiles, but the literal and figurative distance between them was not missed. It was something Harry had tagged in his mind to question Oberyn on upon his return, provided the hostile nature between the two still existed.

That was not to say that the armor was anything less than exemplary. They both were in the style native to Dorne and fit perfectly with the way they had been taught to fight. Oberyn had taught them both, but neither was a facsimile of their teacher or each other. They favored different tactics and techniques.

Obara was more structured, moving from one solid posture to another. Her defense was impeccable and nearly impenetrable with her shield-work. She attacked from behind her Dornish shield or under it, never giving her opponent a clear opening. Of the both of them, Obara was the one to reflect most closely to Oberyn's technique. Her armor reflected that…well, with Oberyn's flair at least.

It was covered in copper, making it shine brilliantly in the sun. The turban helm was conical with chain-mail that draped around the sides and rear like a skirt. A gorget covered her collarbones and rose just a scant few centimeters.

Under Obara's gorget was a byrnie that went just past her waist and above her elbows. The armor over her byrnie was made of overlapping scales that were sewn onto leather, making her torso look like it was covered in the hide of an overly large snake. It reminded Harry of the basilisk of his second year.

Thick raw-hide straps connected her spaulders. Unlike her chest armor, they were segmented like a lobster's tail and finished at the same length of the sleeves of her byrnie. She forewent gauntlets, replacing them with strong leather gloves and vambraces. The last of piece of her armor were the lightly armored greaves.

An orange cloth wrapped around her helm in a simple braid, which draped down and wrapped around her shoulders and sat on top of a red flowy robe. The cloths served to help to keep the wearer cool by blocking the sun from direct contact with as much of the armor as possible. Dorne was a desert and Northern armor did not agree with the weather.

The fact that her father had given Obara armor similar to his own had pleased her to no end. To her, it was a symbol of Oberyn's faith in her abilities. And, Harry agreed. If he did not faith in Obara, he would never allowed her to come. Sworn Shield or not. Bitching or not. Threatening to shove her spear up his ass or not.

His Sworn Shield preferred the weapons of her father; a brightly polished circular shield and a spear with a steel head and spike. Granted it was a short spear, only a foot taller than she was, but it was a combination that provided a weapon of superior reach to most other weapons and a defensive item that could double as another weapon. In the unlikely event her spear became unusable, a tulwar rested on her left hip.

Harry's armor was also of the snake scale variety, but in brass to Obara's copper.

The helm was much like Obara's, with the exception of a black cloth rather than orange that ran around a pendant of a blazing sun that was pinned at the center. Harry was sure Oberyn had put that there in a blatant attempt to piss off his brother.

To Oberyn's credit he had used the colors of Harry's familial house and the sun was not so large; a little smaller than half a hand. So it was more a convoluted insult rather than a direct slap to the face.

His gorget was steel embroidered along the edges in a delicate, yet masculine Dornish design. It was highly polished, allowing the brass to do an impressive mimicry of gold. A beautiful and impressively anatomically correct copper woman knelt naked as a separate raised piece at the center. Her hair was full and curly, but did nothing to cover the exposed breasts or swell at her hips. She looked up as if searching for the sun on his helm, raising her face and arms in worship.

It was a beautiful piece; a work of art, if albeit lewd. But, Oberyn was most people. To him, the human body was art and there was no shame in appreciating the beauty in artistry. Nudity did not equate to shame or public debauchery.

Still, it was a small mercy to Harry's eyes that the spaulders attached to his gorget was free of any large designs. There was only more of the detailing on the trimmings along the cap at his shoulders, vambraces, and greaves.

Instead of a robe Harry had a silken gold overcoat. It had flowing sleeves that fell just below his elbows, with the body falling just inches below hip bone, which was held close around his body with a gold silk sash. A large black sun took up most of the back. A different look from most Dornish men, but still functional for the desert weather.

"Obara." He attempted to catch her attention when her grumblings and pacing became too much to bear. She did not even bother to register his presence. Not even so much as a glance. Obara just paced until she hit one bulkhead, spun on her heels, and made her way to the other.

"Obara!"

"What!" She spun and snapped at him like a cobra. Harry resisted the urge to posture, stand and glare her down into submission. It was an unwanted reflex; a symptom of being bullied most of his young life. After so long, after so many years, even across lives, some habits die hard.

"What bothers you?" He said calmly. "And, before you say 'nothing', I would like to point out that you have done an admirable job of attempting to make me nauseous."

"Then stop watching me." Obara ground out.

Harry sighed as her face pinched into a snarl. She was incredibly difficult. Not that he could blame her.

They had been confined to the ship for weeks with little to do. The men left them well enough alone. They knew he was brother to the King, but had apparently heard tales of his magic. And like all people who were ignorant of a potential dangerous subject, they were suspicious of him. None were rude or disrespectful, but they did give them a wide berth. It was understandable that Obara was experiencing cabin-fever.

Literal as the case was.

He would have told her to go find some men to spar with, maybe gamble away some of her coins in a game of dice. But, Harry was smarter than that. His men were Northerners. At least, that's what the eastern Dornish considered them. They had very different opinions to women's role in…everything.

Sailors were a superstitious sort and it was an infamous myth that women were bad luck on a ship. Harry was not stupid enough to even imagine that Obara would take their opinions lightly or cruel enough to subject the men of the _Leatherneck_ to her ire. They had been entrusted to his care and leadership. And as it was, they were weary enough of him.

"Obara…" He sighed again, before she interrupted.

"Do not sigh at me as if I am some petulant child!" Obara snarled.

"Then stop acting like one!" He snapped back, causing Obara to take a single step back.

Harry hadn't meant to shout at her. The words had just erupted, bypassed the filter of his conscious. He had an inkling as to what was wrong, aside from the boredom and he truly did want to be understanding. However, it was difficult when she was being so closed off from him. Harry would have liked to think they had grown closer in recent years. Close enough to have developed some trust. All he wanted to do was help her, but he couldn't do that if she would not let him.

"I apologize for yelling at you," Harry said softly, "but you are obviously anxious about something. Sit and let us speak on it. You may find you will feel better once airing out whatever thoughts trouble you."

He chose his words carefully, deliberately avoiding words like 'afraid' and 'please'. The first because it would only set her off in a tirade of bravado and completely skim over what was bothering her. The other because Harry did not want her to mistake what he said as a request. He was an easy going sort, but there were times when he knew his feet must be grounded and stand firm on his instance of things. Harry did not prefer it, but there were times when it was the only way.

"There are many thoughts that vex me." Obara finally admitted. It was not much, but he would coax it out of her. Harry did not plan on fighting on Harlaw, but if there was to be battle, he did not want her to venture out onto the field with anything other than a hundred percent focus.

All it took was one misstep, one moment of negligence, and Harry may have to be the one to tell Oberyn that he was less one daughter.

"Then, start with the first thing. We still have at least eight days until we reach Harlaw. Plenty of enough time for you to talk and for us to resolve whatever it is that is turning you barmy." He joked in an attempt to lighten the storm cloud that hung around Obara.

"Why are you not afraid?" She asked, sinking to the bed. She groaned it was as if the weight of the entire world had been on her shoulders and only then was she allowed a respite.

"Would you prefer if I was a quivering mess?" Harry asked curiously. He would have thought his calmness would be appreciated. After all, as their leader if Harry was to panic, then the rest would follow suit. Perhaps, it was that many of the men expected him to be anxious. As far as they knew, Harry had never entered into a melee competition let alone a real battle.

"As sad as it may be to say, yes. I would feel much better knowing that you have some fear in you." Obara said, confirming Harry's thoughts. "We sail to war and in the weeks we have been on this ship, you have acted as if it is another day."

She stood from her spot on the mattress and started to pace again, her hands waving wildly as she spoke.

"This is not a travel to the clinic, Harry. We are out of Sunspear, out of Dorne. The moment our feet touch soil, every man native to that land will want to kill us. I am supposed to be the one protecting you and I am ready to jump out of my skin. Does this not conjure some sort of fear in you? A level of caution? A spark of worry? Anything?"

"No." He replied plainly.

"Why the fucking hells not!" Obara exclaimed as she turn on him. Her hands slammed against the headboard of the mattress, only a few inches apart from where his head was. His Sworn Shield's growling visage was so close, Harry could see ever crinkle on her nose as she snarled, every eyelash as her wild eyes focused in on him.

He knew of lesser men who would have backed away, that would have flinched. But, Harry was unafraid. Obara would never intentional hurt him. There was respect between them. And, with that respect came honesty. Honesty in words and in action. He wanted her to be able to be herself, to never feel censored. Even if it meant enduring her outbursts.

While within his rights to lose his temper, Harry just took one of Obara's hands in his own and guided her to sit beside him as she once did. She was resistance, giving a half-hearted attempt to pull away so she could start her pacing. But, Harry would have not of that.

"If that is what bothers you most, then the answer is simple, Obara." Harry began as soon as she sat. "There are only two things certain in life: we live and we die. And, while the first may not be as certain, the latter is absolute. We all die, Obara. It is an inevitability. So, why fear it?"

He was perhaps being a bit unfair. Harry had caught a glimpse of the afterlife. Or, the afterlife he was supposed to be sent to. He had seen the smiling, welcoming faces of all those he had ever held dear. He knew what was waiting for him on the other side. Obara did not. It was reasonable that she would be afraid.

"You hold nothing so dear that you are afraid to lose it?" Obara questioned with no small amount of skepticism. Harry could not help the small chuckle that escaped him. By the look that developed on her face, he knew Obara believed him to be mocking her.

"I apologize. I am not mocking you, Obara." He quickly remedied, holding up his hand to stall the verbal abuse she looked ready to bombard him with. "Of course there are. That is why I give my flowers to the living, Obara. I live my life as beautifully and smartly as I am able every day, because it very well may be my last." Harry said.

It was a principle he had only learned to fully apply in his current life, but the sentiment was sound and it was one that he wanted Obara to keep with her always.

"How do you do that?" She all but whispered.

"Do what?" Harry asked quizzically.

"How do you always know the right things to say? Did you mother read you nothing but books on ideology? Do you have a scroll written inside your sleeve?" She reached for said sleeve, pulling it up to reveal nothing but flesh. Half in jest, Obara was put out that there were was no ink.

"Well, let us just say that I have a unique outlook at life." He just laughed and settled her searching. With her hands still in his, Harry gazed into Obara's eyes, the eyes of one of his first true friends in Westeros. It was good to see her in better spirits. Mayhap she was not out of the woods yet, but there was a light at the end of her dark tunnel.

"Yes, I suppose you do." She agreed. "Seeing the sick and dying every day will do that."

Harry laid down, laying his feet behind Obara. He did not correct her because she was right. Seeing people die in a war was much different than seeing them perish at the clinic. During war, even if it was at the back of everyone's mind, causalities were expected. It was just the sad truth about warfare; people were going to die.

However, the clinic was a place people went to survive; to escape death just a little bit longer. In his past life, he had never been the one to give people the bad news. If anything, it was quite the contrary. Harry had always been at the receiving end. Being the one responsible, the person in charge, was a heavier cross to bear.

It was his burden to tell the mother whose sweat from labor had yet dried, that there was nothing else that could be done for her stillborn. It was Harry who had to sit and listen as she begged, pleaded, and eventually cursed at him as she cried herself to sleep.

Harry was the one to have to tell a father and husband that he could no longer work because they had to sever a limb to keep the body alive. It was Harry who had to look into their eyes and tell them that they lives were irrevocably changed. And those horrors stuck to him harder, pained him more than the dead on the battlefield.

Contrary to the popular belief in Dorne, his magic could not heal all. He could channel as much of his magic as he could into a task, but that did not mean it would always succeed. Some people were just too far gone, the disease or sickness too engrained for Harry to do anything at all.

Magic did not come as easy as it once had. His magic was without focus; wild and untamable. Until he had learned from those who now worked for him, most of what Harry did was energy (magical) manipulation. It was simple in theory, but exhausting in application. Instead of having words or runes to give his magic direction, Harry coaxed it to do as he wished. No easy thing as magic was as vast as space and as untamable as gravity.

That was why healers such as Maegar used simpler magic, such as charming objects. They enhanced the natural properties or removed impurities from the ingredients to increase effectiveness. They never used magic to treat people directly because none so far had been able channel magic in such quantities as Harry. Whereas Harry could close a cleanse and heal a cut, and be able to move about his day, barely a sheen of sweat on him, others would find themselves out of breath as best and attached to a bed for a day at worst.

However, just because none could do as he did, did not mean Harry had been the best healer. It took many moons of pure research, many hours a day where Harry did nothing but comb through the tomes that littered the library.

Even after that, he spoke and discussed with the hedge wizards and witches that came to work for him. All of whom knew so much more than he did. They had turned their lack of magical power into a strength, combining science and nature into a form of alchemy.

None of them were Nicholas Flamel, but Maegar could make some of even the most experienced healers of St. Mungo's marvel at what he did with common herbs and the smallest bit of magic. Even Harry did things their way as it was less taxing. He could do more with less.

"Let us think of happier thoughts." Harry said, just as much for Obara as he did for himself.

Obara replied with a noncommittal sound before clambering over him. No attention was paid to how if anyone were to enter at the moment, the positioning would have been rather compromising. Only temporarily, but compromising nonetheless.

She laid beside him, mimicking his posture with her hands behind her head and ankles crossed. Their elbows were touching and they played a small game of trying to end up on top without releasing their hands, but they were not so close as to be misconstrued as anything other than good friends.

Well, in Dorne anyway.

Harry knew that if his mother were alive she would have blown a coronary seeing him in bed with a young woman; both from shock and how loudly she would have chastised him. The fact they were fully clothed would simply not have registered.

They stared out one of the windows of the cabin. It was soon to be night, the window giving them the perfect view as the blues gave way to the oranges of the sky. The stars would be out soon. And while the constellations were not the same, Harry had always enjoyed looking at a clear night sky. It had a way of making all his troubles fade away when taking in the incalculability of space.

"So, have you given into my cousin's demands to deflower her yet?" Obara asked out of left field.

"Where the hells did that come from?" Harry riposted, turning his head with enough force he surprised himself when his vertebrae did not crack.

"You said to speak on happier things."

"I said to think on happier things." He corrected her.

"Same thing." Obara waved away him away.

"Do not take this incorrectly, but how is whether Arianne and I have been abed a happier subject?"

"Well, for starters I would not have to hear her lament that all her hints have so far been unheeded." She commented blithely with a grin.

"If you hear of it so often, then you should already know the answer to it." He pointed out.

"Oh, I do. I just wanted to see your expression." Obara confessed, her growing grin threatening to split her face.

Harry did not bother to ask 'why'. All of the Sand Snakes took some perverse pleasure in seeing him put on his back foot. It was not something that happened often. Having raised daughters and granddaughters in his previous life, there was almost nothing Harry had not encounter before. Some of which, he dearly wished he had not.

"You have seen it." He sighed. "Next topic."

"Fine, fine. Spoilsport." Obara lamented dramatically. "What is your plan once we set foot on Harlaw?"

Harry sighed again, but in relief rather than exasperation. Obara had chosen a topic that was neutral, a small mercy considering she could very well have made the rest of the evening difficult. Well, difficult for Harry. She would find it amusing to the level of stitches, but it would have been something akin to torture for him.

So, again, small mercies.

"Well…I'm going to sue for peace." Harry smirked, feeling Obara's wide-eyed gaze on the side of his head.

 _Good, that'll give her something else to rant about for a while._


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Hey, here's the next chapter. Sorry about the lack of updates. The final year of college is coming up and I'm working an internship right now. I literally wake up at 4 am and don't get home until 4 pm. Three to four hours of that is waiting in traffic. So, I don't have the energy to write.**

 **Also, my muse is throwing all kind of things at me. Unfortunately, none of them are for either of the stories I already have posted. I honestly think she's sadistic. I'll have enough inspiration for one to four chapters and she'll leave me. Right now, I've gotten back into Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark-Hunter series...so I might be posting a crossover with that. I'm unsure if it's going to be a Harry Potter crossover or Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover with Xander. I like both characters and think they were...under utilized in their canon franchises. Especially Xander.**

 **Anyway, here's chapter six.**

 **Please remember to Read and Review. I like the reviews. Even the non-positive ones as it gives me a framework on how to be a better writer.**

 **~Cheers**

 **Jin**

The Well-Read Harlaw (Lord Rodrik Harlaw)

He was not the average Ironborn.

Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of House Harlaw of the island Harlaw, did not condone raiding for the sake of violence and killing. The killing was an inevitability of their raiding. But the Ironborn would not have started to do so if their own land could support them. Raiding was their way of life, because not to do so would result in their death.

That was his perspective on the matter.

If only all of the others were of the same mind.

His brethren sacked and burned all that was around them to the ground, giving no thought to the consequences. Most only saw the glory of plunder. So long as gold lined their hands and drink found itself into their bellies, damned the aftermath.

They did not have his foresight. A prudence that was born from knowledge. It was why Rodrik was the most reluctant of his kind to agree to the rebellion.

For years Balon's father, Quellon, had kept the peace. He was a tall man, both fast and strong. A respected Ironborn who understood and was humbled by the weight of leadership. Quellon had all the reasons to be prideful and conceited, but the man was cautious and modest. He had been ten times the man Balon could ever hope to be.

Quellon knew that peace for the Iron Islands demanded good relationship with the rest of the Kingdoms. He had put a stop to most of the raids, freed thralls, and discouraged the taking of salt wives. Maesters, septons, and septas were allowed to live on the Iron Islands. It served to bring acceptance of the Greenlander ways and show that Ironborn or Greenlander, they were not so different. They all did what was needed to survive. Quellon sought to empower them through integration; allowing themselves to sail with the aid of the waves, rather than trying to oar their way through.

It was the smart move to make.

The Ironborn were some of the best ship makers and sailors the world over. There were none that could challenge their longboats in terms of durability, maneuverability, and access to all forms of free flowing water. There were none who would question that Ironborn warriors were the best fighters on the seas. But, even with a thousand longboats and thirty-thousand Reavers they would not be able to protect themselves if all the people they had pissed off over the centuries joined arms against them.

A statistical certainty that was being proven with Balon's recent demonstration of idiocy.

Rodrik did not care much for his cousin's husband as of late. Balon had started with such promise; a man known for his fearlessness, fierceness, and leadership ability. But, recent events had changed Rodrik's mind.

Where Rodrik had once thought Balon fearless, it had just turned out to be recklessness. He was a man with more pride than intelligence. A man so stuck on making a name for himself he would threaten their people's lives for the sake of his glory. Balon had his axes, swords, and ships, but refused to use his most important weapon.

His brain.

Anyone with half of one would have told Balon that his idea was a stupid one. The Baratheon King had only just taken the throne a few years ago. There were still dissenters who would love nothing more than to watch him fall. He was a king that needed to establish a point and Balon just handed him the Ironborn to make examples of.

Robert Baratheon was a cornered animal.

The most dangerous kind and Balon Greyjoy just poked it with a damn stick.

What a fool Balon was. A fool with an equally foolish plan that could possibly see the land of their forefathers destroyed.

Not only had the idiot made the Greenlanders unite, but even in Rodrik's wildest imaginations he could not fathom what Balon believed was going to happen. There was no finish line. At least, none that saw the Ironborn winning.

So what if they had raided Seagard and Lannisport? Did he not believe they would retaliate? Did Balon think the Greenlanders were just going to roll over and die? Did he expect to repel the invasion from behind their castles?

The Ironborn's strength was in speed and surprise. They mounted lightning assaults that killed the opposition before they had a chance to mount an attack. They never ventured too far inland lest they give their enemy a chance to burn their ships; their only mode of safety. They got in and got out before men with powerful horses and long lances could trample them to death.

The Iron Islands were known for their abundance in iron, which made providing armor to their soldiers easy. But, it was not an act exclusive to their army. Every other kingdom had just as many men in armor. Some more so because they were wealthier and had a higher population. While they may be even in that regard, what put the Ironborn at the most disadvantage in prolonged combat on land was the lack of cavalry. An armored man on the ground, no matter how well made the armor, was at a distinct handicap when facing charging cavalry.

Regardless of how Rodrik looked at it, Balon's plan hinged on hope that was thinly veiled as strategy. Normally, he would not have supported such a careless endeavor. But, they were family, even if it was through marriage, and Rodrik had sworn an oath of fealty to him.

But, as they say, everything became much clearer in hindsight.

It was too late to back out. Not only had they lost too much, Rodrik losing his both of his sons, but no commander worth their salt would stop their advance. He had seen the truth of that fact only a day ago when forty ships sailed towards his island, their large sails proclaiming they were Houses from the Stormlands.

As soon as the sails were able to be seen on the horizon, Rodrik had given the order for all the people and provisions to be taken behind the gates of Harlaw. The moment the Iron Fleet had set sail, he had already started to think of contingency plans. There was always a chance that Balon's plan could succeed, but an even greater chance it would fail.

Either way, Rodrik had been prepared.

He had barely a wink of sleep through the night, waiting for word that the siege had begun. Their castle walls were tall, strong, and if he rallied every able bodied person, they would have just over a thousand bodies to man them.

Not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it was what he had and he would have to make do. If Stannis Baratheon could hold Storm's End for moons, then he could at least attempt to hold the Ten Towers until Balon emerged victorious or bent the knee, either of which would be soon.

The end was coming soon. That much Rodrik knew to be true.

"My lord." one of his stewards announced himself, walking into the dining room Rodrik had turned into his base of operations.

"What is it?" He asked, not taking his eyes off the map of the island.

"A message from the commander of the Stormland fleet." His steward stepped forward to present the rolled scrolled.

"Who is their commander?" Rodrik questioned, interested to know which of the Houses did King Robert chose to lead the army of his homeland.

Stannis was leading the Royal Fleet towards Great Wyk at last report and the brother who was to rule Storm's End was barely a man. The only logical conclusion was the other, the medicine man fostering in Dorne, or a House not of Robert's own. Rodrik was unsure of which he preferred.

"The younger brother of Robert Baratheon, Hadrian Baratheon."

Rodrik refused to cringe at the words. He greatly wanted to, but would not.

Fate, destiny, or some other cosmic force had decided to give him a swift kick in the balls. Probably as payment for his stupidity in joining Balon.

The Healer, as he was called, was a loved and respected man throughout all of Dorne from the stories Rodrik had heard. And, if there was anything worthy of a humble fear it was a man that was adored.

Men loved by their people could make them do all manner of acts out of devotion. They did not need to command, merely make their desire known, and the people would clamor to accomplish the task. People fought harder, were willing to risk more, even going to far as to suicide themselves, in the name of their reverence. Life would have been so much simpler if the army was Dornish. It would have given Rodrik better options.

As a witchdoctor, it was fair to assume that Hadrian valued life over glory. He would be hesitant to shed blood. Because that was what would happen if they decided to siege the Ten Towers. The losses may have been minimal for him, but Rodrik was banking on the fact that Hadrian would be open to a more pacifist route. If he succeeded, the Dornish's respect and admiration for Hadrian would see them following his word to the letter. If he said that there would be no pillaging and plundering, they would listen.

If they were Dornish.

Which was what made him want to cringe. Because as it was, the army was from the Stormlands. That complicated matters. They did not hold the same respect for the young Baratheon as the Dornish. He was born as one of their own, survived the Tyrell siege alongside his brothers, but he was to be married to the future Princess of Sunspear. While the open rivalry between the Stormlands and Dorne had ceased long ago, the animosity would take centuries more to die.

Not to mention, that all of the great things that Hadrian had already done for Sunspear could have benefitted the Stormlands. Blame lay with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn, but the nearsightedness of men was legendary. He doubted they would be able to see past the tree that was in front of them.

"And what does the missive say?" Rodrik asked, doing his best not to show that he was holding his breath.

"He wishes to parlay."

The words were a small relief, but caused suspicion to rise within him. It made no strategic sense for the Baratheon to talk terms, when with the right amount of artillery he could take the island within a few days.

A week at most.

There was a possibility that it was all a setup for Rodrik to be poisoned. As a squire to the Red Viper, a man notorious for the use of poisons, it was not too far a jump in conclusion to think he had taught his squire or that the man's squire would see the option unreasonable. A few deaths rather than hundreds.

But, that held no great advantage for Hadrian. It would only label the young man a craven and poisoner. Terms that would reflect negatively towards the House of his birth and more importantly, his kingly brother. A fact known to the squire of the Red Viper. The saving of those lives would ruin his own and that of the House his name was associated with.

It was simpler and there would be better glory in just finishing Rodrik off the old-fashioned way. Poison was the tools of cowards and women. And, say what anyone will of the Baratheon House, but cowards they were not. So, while he was suspicious, Rodrik was also intrigued.

He took the scroll from his steward, squinting his eyes to read the message for himself.

They would both be allowed a contingent of five men to act as guards and witnesses to whatever was agreed upon. A small number, but that fit in Rodrik's favor as well. If anything were to go wrong, only a really miniscule amount of warriors would be with him outside the gate.

Overall, it seemed a just and easily agreeable arrangement. But, like with all things that seemed too good to be true, Rodrik assumed that they were. He just could not see what the catch was.

Not that it mattered. It wasn't as if he had many alternatives.

It was because of the lack of options that he commanded his steward to call for his most hardened men to armor and arm themselves. One of those men was to be his nephew and one of the few Ironborn knights, Harrass.

With both his sons dead, his nephew was the next in the line of succession and whatever Rodrik decided to do would affect him for years to come. It was only right to have him along.

Not to mention, having the young man's Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, at their side should things go wrong may prove to be invaluable.

It had only taken an hour. The sun had barely moved from its position in the sky when everything was set. But, it was the longest hour Rodrik had ever felt. Time seemed like such a relative thing, moving with at the pace of ice melting in the North.

His nerves were heightened. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins, could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and everything was clearer than it had ever been in his eyes. He could hear the crisp clings as his attendants strapped on his armor and the tin-like clangs as he walked down the corridors of the Ten Towers.

The scenic route he had taken through the Book Tower, a place he immensely enjoyed, felt like a trip to the gallows. There were still so many books for him to read and Rodrik was unsure if he would ever get to finish.

He had always thought it would be because of his failing eyes. But, it very well could be that at the end of that day, it would be because of lack of a head that the spines of his precious books would never again be cracked.

 _I suppose it would be because of my eyes,_ he could not help but chuckle at his own gallows humor.

Rodrik was met at the castle gates with the men he had instructed, Harras leading them from the front. From the look of them, they all shared his suspicion about the suing for peace. To his mind, it was only because were they in the same situation, they never would have shown mercy.

"This does not feel right, uncle." Harras said lowly, as they all marched out the gates two-by-two in a column with Rodrik and Harras second in line. "Why parley when they have advantage?"

"I know not, Harass. That is what we are going to ascertain." He replied evenly, taking out all his anxiousness on the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were white from how tightly he gripped.

"It stinks of a nefarious plot." Harrass spat. "We should turn back and hold them off until the other islands can reinforce us."

"Nefarious? Have you been reading my books?" Rodrik managed to make the small joke.

"Uncle, this is serious." His nephew chastised, as if he was not well aware of the severity of their situation.

"I am well aware, Harras." He said, his jovial nature disappearing in an instant. "But, what choice do we have? How long do you think we will be able to hold them off? A week? Two? How long do you think the people will survive a siege? How many would survive?"

"So we are the Greenlander's dogs? He whistles and we come running to beg for a treat?" The derision in Harass's voice was unmistakable.

It made Rodrik want to slap the attitude from him. His nephew had made it sound as if it was his idea to parlay, as if he was the one begging for mercy. It was all that youthful pride that was still in Harass that clouded his vision. A problem Rodrik did not have the luxury to have.

He was far too old to listen to his pride than common sense. The young Baratheon appeared to want to give them an out, allowed his true colors as a healer of men to shine through. Neither wanted pointless bloodshed. They both knew Hadrian could take Ten Towers, but they also knew that they would both lose men.

Neither had anything to lose in coming to a peaceful resolution. The Baratheon would obtain his victory and Rodrik and his people would be spared. If all went accordingly, then it was to be a win-win scenario.

Unlike the amount of time it took for Rodrik to walk to the gates of the Ten Towers, the time to reach the small tent in the middle of the clearing took no time at all. Easier still, it took no effort what so ever to determine who Hadrian Baratheon was. The light scaled armor he and the young man wielding a spear beside him wore, clearly outed them as Dornish. Mayhap not by birth in the case of young Hadrian, but the slight tan of his skin and shortness of his hair certainly spoke of how well he had adapted.

He sat alone at the square table, clad in brass scale armor and gold sand-silk coat. His helm resided to his left, just left of where his elbows were planted to support his steepled fingers. A strange sword absent its scabbard was thrusted into the ground to his right. Judging from a glance at its length it could easily be plucked and a single swipe would be enough to cover the entire table.

Then, it would be off with his head.

The woman Rodrik could only assume was his Sworn Shield stood closest to him, only a step behind and to the left. Her spear was poised, subtly pointed in their direction and tracking his movements like a snake. He had no question as to who she would skewer first should things go wrong.

Well, that was of course assuming she had not set them on fire. With the way her gaze fixated his head, Rodrik was surprised a hole had not been bore through.

Four more men stood behind Hadrian, three steps farther back than the Dornish woman. He could tell what Houses they represented by the sigils painted onto their tabards. Three stalks of yellow wheat for House Selmy, white crossed quills for House Penrose, a flying black crow for House Morrigen, and a yellow haystack for House Errol. None of them had their weapons bared, but judging from the scowls on their faces and their hands gripping their swords, they would have been more than happy to use them.

Lord Harlaw received the message.

Loud and clear.

He took the seat opposite to the young Baratheon and his men, in a show of force, stood directly behind him. They wanted to crowd Hadrian, make him feel their shadows loom over him. Rodrik was not surprised when the young man appeared unfazed and instead bore into Rodrik's eyes with his gaze from behind his hands.

A moment of waiting passed.

And another.

And another.

And another.

The silence would have been stifling if not for the ambient noise of the soft sea breeze and waves crashing upon the shore. He was the one to break their staring contest first. But not because he was afraid. Rather it was to catch sight of the soldiers. The sea of armored bodies that would ransack his home given the opportunity.

The Lord of Harlaw could not readily count them. That alone spoke to their magnitude. However, he hazarded to guess them at twelve-thousand strong. More than enough.

"You have brought us all the way out here to talk, so talk Greenlander." His nephew broke the silence with his command. Harras may have thought himself being a leader by taking charge, but all Rodrik wanted to do was strangle the air out of him.

Harras did grasp the severity of their situation, just the wrong side of it. They were the ones with their balls in a vice. The Baratheon was the one who had his hand on the crank. All it would take was a little pressure, the barest of motions would see them undone.

The Lord of Harlaw did not know why Hadrian said nothing. Any other lord would have been quick to cut Harras down to size. But he just stared. As if loss in the abyss. In his wisdom, Rodrik waited. The Baratheon had called the meeting and was holding all the cards. Rodrik would wait for the terms to be set and hopefully be able to negotiate.

"Do not act as if you have not heard me boy!" Harras exclaimed, moving from his spot to slam his hands down on the side of the table. He was on the opposite side of the Dornish woman, but far too close for any semblance of respectful distance and dangerously too close to Hadrian's sword.

It happened in an instant, not a breath after Harras's hands touched varnished oak. A flicker of the eyelid and Rodrik would have sworn he did not see it happen. But, something flashed across the Baratheon's face. And, in that moment, Rodrik knew his nephew had made a grave mistake.

In the next moment, a hand that had been used to heal the sick and dying were latched around Harras's head and pulled him rapidly towards the table. The sound of breaking cartilage rang out, replacing the crash of a singular wave just as his nephew's surprised and painful groan superseded the whispers of the gale. There was no doubt that Harras would have screamed in pain, where it not for the mouthful of table.

With the other hand, Hadrian had grasped his sword and link it through Harras's arm, bending his elbow at an awkward angle while resting the very sharp blade against his neck. Rodrik thanked the Drowned god that none of his men were stupid enough to move. It would take no more than a twitch to see liquid life spill like a fountain unto the barren ground below them. An involuntary spasm is all it would take to see Harras the Knight become Harrass the Headless.

"I came in peace and with respect. I wanted nothing, but peace and respect in return." The young man's voice rasped, sounding much older that his face told. There was a pain there Rodrik could not readily classify. The sound of two minds battling with one reluctantly capitulating to the other, as water would surrender itself from a stone if squeezed hard enough. In tone and expression, it was evident to all who looked upon the future Prince of Dorne, that his actions were one of deep sadness and strain.

"I did not bring artillery. I did not bring cavalry. But, I'm begging you, with all the sorrow my heart can muster: if you fuck with me, I will kill you all. I will keep killing you until you grow sick of it. I will kill so many, that what remain of your people shall speak with boundless revulsion of the acts I will commit."

Entranced.

No, that was too beautiful a word. A word used to describe desirable women who could capture a man in a crowded room with only her smoky gaze. It was used to describe the amazement as adventurers came upon a mountain of gold and marveled in how it glittered. Entranced was the feeling of a man who laid eyes upon their firstborn and marveled at the gift and fragileness of life.

He was not entranced.

The Lord of Harlaw, the most wealthy and populous of the Iron Islands, was frozen. He could not breath, could not speak. His brain, which had seen thousands of words would not, could not function long enough to string together a coherent sentence. Were that he could, he was unsure if his mouth would even spew forth the words in fear of prompting a reaction.

It was a surreal feeling. The lie of the reality before him. He was a seasoned lord. His nephew a seasoned warrior. The Prince of Dorne a healer. It was like the beginning of a bad jest. Their situation would have been comical if not for that fact that he and his nephew were the punchline.

He could have called the young man's actions a bluff. But, there was not a single part of him that believed Hadrian bluffing. He was, perhaps unknowingly, using their ways against them. Rodrik's men had earlier sought to make the Baratheon feel crowded and cowed through intimidation. Hadrian returned in kind.

This is what peaceful deterrence was to the Ironborn. A show of steel in hand and heart. A demonstration that blood would flow if anything less than their demands were met. Were it that the Baratheon an Ironborn himself, he would be heralded for his political skill. Because threatening those covered under the flimsy tarp of parlay was surely not the Greenlander way.

And the threat was very much real. Of that, Rodrik Harlaw had no doubt. The young man's eyes gave away intent. The Baratheon would have internal moral struggle with fulfilling his threat, but would soldier on and break through such harsh mental walls like a battering ram. Because, that was what Rodrik when they met stares.

A soldier whose interior struggle had turned him from war. It was war dragging him back into the fray.

And, suddenly it became clear why Hadrian Baratheon, a descendant of a House that is known for their warriors, had chosen an opposite path. He was a man who had committed horrors and seen numerous more. What those horrors were Rodrik could only assume, but they had certainly left scars on him. Wounds of the mind that would have Hadrian see no difficulty in opening up his nephew like a pig, over the table where he was bent like a whore, if it meant ensuring his accepted level of surrender.

He was wrong. They did not have their balls in a vice. They were but thralls presented before their master, begging for life when death was their righteous reward. It would only be through mercy and grace that would see them spare. And, as all thralls knew, there was no way to see mercy other than prostrated.

"If you offer peace and life, I will offer you surrender in kind." The words slipped easily from his tongue, even if his pride had taken a blow.

"Uncle!" Harras struggled from beneath the threat of a dangling sword.

"All I wanted was peaceful surrender, Lord Harlaw. I sought no glory at your deaths, no spoils amongst your people. Had you swallowed pride and willingly bent the knee upon arrival we would have been halfway through a cup of wine, instead of me contemplating having the earth drunk upon your nephew's life."

It had all been a test. Smartly, the young Baratheon had set a trap and allowed the men of Harlaw dictate how they would treat each other. Should Rodrik have readily surrendered, Hadrian would have embraced them. But, mostly on Harras's part, they had come with aggression and he responded in kind.

"Yes…yes, I see that now." Rodrik slowly placed his hand on the thick, cleaver-like sword laying against his nephew's neck, hoping to yet have Harras's head upon his shoulders. "My nephew has offered insult and I can appreciate your need to see him pay. But, I have already lost both my sons. Harras is now my heir. You would have my gratitude on top my surrender, should you show an old man pity and not allow my nephew's pride to become his fall."

"Fuck that." The Dornish woman spat her interjection. "He raised himself against you. If you don't want to punish him for that, then I fucking will. A quick thrust will see his debt paid."

The Stormlords muttered their agreement. Their eyes, which had previously only known hatred for him and his kind, now shined with respect for the future Dornish prince. He was young, but the threat he had made himself against the Ironborn of Harlaw impressed them. They urged him to agree with the Dornish woman, demonstrating that the enemy of their enemy was their friend.

"Wait." Rodrik interjected before the young man could give the thought credence.

Harras may have been out of line, but the man was still his heir. Three heirs to perish in less moons would send the wrong message to the other Islands. Not to mention, while not skilled in politics, Harras was a skill sailor, commander, and warrior. To not have him amongst their ranks would further lower the threat of his House.

It was with painful slowness that Rodrik reached over and with the utmost caution drew Nightfall from Harras's scabbard. His nephew renewed his attempts at struggle, but Rodrik clamped down around the younger man's shoulder with all his strength and rendered all his silent disagreement moot.

The sword was handsome and valuable, but would hold no meaning when Harras was dead. They would take his head and then take his sword. It would mean even less if Hadrian was to eradicate his House.

He was hoping that with its ready presentation, he could save Harras's head. Even Valyrian steel was not worth the price of ruin that would come to his House.

"Hostages are kept for ransom. Take this sword and let us call it payment for ransom and recompense for his insult." He said, laying the sword carefully upon the table, the tip of the blade pointed towards himself.

"You are saying Valyrian steel is worth more than your nephew's life?" Hadrian questioned, looking up at him.

Rodrik was smarter than the moments ago he had first appeared in front of the young Baratheon. He weighed his words in his mind carefully, balancing spoken and implied meaning.

"It is not his life's worth to me, but what it is worth to you."

It was his original strategy; to tug on the heart strings. The price attached to it was unexpected, but one that he was not unwilling to pay. Valyrian steel was prized because of its rarity and because of supposed magical qualities. But, to Rodrik, at the end of the day it was still only a weapon. There was more value to him in rare books than rare steel. And the name of his House was worth…well, maybe not all his books, but a good portion.

Harras was tossed to the floor, the dissatisfied grunt a welcomed sound to Rodrik's ears. As his nephew took to stand, he stood between the two men. They had just made peace and he would not see it undone.

"Obara." At the command of her liege lord, the Dornish woman drove her spear into the ground and took the Valyrian steel sword into her hand. She may have been more comfortable with her short-spear, but the young woman was no stranger to the sword. Her eyes rested firmly on Harras, conveying that she would run him through for the simplest reasons, the smallest infractions.

"I will accept your formal surrender at this time."

And with that, the young Baratheon planted his sword into the ground, his overlapping hands cupping the pommel. In that moment, he was not barely a man of four-and-ten. He ever looked the part of a man conquering the soil he set foot upon, if only were his sword were a flag.

Rodrik motioned to his men, his hand upon his nephew's shoulder to guide them both to the ground on bent knee. Harras's teeth ground so hard together that he could hear them and his shoulders shook so roughly in barely contained rage that his armor clanked. Fortunately for him, the man said nothing. He had barely escaped with his head, Rodrik had no issue with separating him from a few teeth.

"Lord–"

"Prince." The Dornish woman interjected, much to the murmuring of the Stormlords. "Prince Harry Baratheon Nymeros Martell."

Rodrik looked to the man in question with a quizzical gaze. The visage of the conqueror broke and was replaced with youthful exasperation; the heavy sigh of the woman's name and closed eyes of a youth embarrassed by their parents. Each face was two very distinct sides of an intricately confusing coin. He questioned which countenance was the façade: the youth or the conqueror.

In truth, he hoped to never have to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: I had previously typed a super long AN, but deleted it because it seemed to almost be its own story. So, I'll streamline this one.**

 **1\. Thank you to all the reviewers. Last chapter reached over 100 reviews. The most any chapter has gotten for both stories. For the people who left detailed reviews, I love you even more. I read all of them and not only does it make my muse want to work, but it does give me things to think about.**

 **2\. Complaints about magic (or therefore lack of): I look back on Chapter 2 and think about why I gave Harry such a blatant display of magic. To be honest, it was from all the complaints. And it makes me want to punch myself in the face. I had this idea...the very central though of what magic would be like and chucked it because a few people said 'there's no wands? Harry can't fix the world with a wave of his fingers? Fuck this!'. I look back and see how I let that affect me and I hate myself for it. This is my bloody story and aside from the aforementioned faus pas, I like how it's going. I love all the reviewers, followers, and those who have favorited. But I have to write how I like writing or this is pointless. Because, as soon as fanfiction no longer becomes fun for the writer, the fanfiction is dead. And I don't want to leave you guys wondering. Because I hate that too.**

 **3\. Favorites/Followers/Reviewers: As I said, earlier, I love you all. People who write 'great', 'moar', etc are appreciated, but I love the people who tell me what they like, what they hate, and what they want to see. Because I read them all. If you have an ID, most likely I PM you. For those with guest, please know that even if I never write anything down or mention you specifically, I read your reviews and appreciate them. That being said, it's kinda...disappointing? disheartening?...something like that...when there are over 2000 favorites and followers and like 100 reviews. Some fanfic authors tell me, 'hey that's better than the average. Take what you can get'. And like I said, I appreciate every one. But I do this for free, my muse does it for reviews. When almost 90% are 'moar', 'good', 'nice' (literally one word reviews), I'm kind of lost. I'm not complaining, just asking you show this author a little love. I hardly read on anymore because...good stories are getting hard to find. But, the few I do read, I always leave a little something even if I'm too lazy to sign in. This doesn't just go for me...do it to other authors too. Readers have to remember, that authors are the ones that keep this site going. It's important to show them love. Like real love. I never understood that until I started publishing my work.**

 **4\. Lack of action: it's building up to it. It's a long build up followed by a short peak. That's the way most battles are. In the Marines we called it 'Hurry up and wait'. Harlaw was a taste and then hopefully next chapter will be what everyone has been waiting for. I know, this has been like click-baiting, but this is what my mind wants to write. So I write it and share.**

 **5\. Harry Inventor: People are saying that Harry should introduce modern theories and productions to Westeros. Things like printing presses, germ theory, etc etc. I would like to point out, that he already has. He basically runs a centralized free clinic. It's essentially Government Health Care in a world where damn near everything is a privatized oligarchy. Secondly, I'll address some of the more modern things people want to see:**

 **Printing Press: For what? Most common people couldn't read. They had no need to. They had a trade and learned that trade through apprenticeships. Not to mention, most people worked all day, everyday. Leisure was an aspect of life for only the few. So what is the point of being able to publish a hundred copies of a book when a majority of the people can't read or won't even bother.**

 **Public Schools: Again, for what? Children can go learn! So what? In a feudalistic society manual labor was the backbone of civilizations. Farmers, soldiers, builders, blacksmiths were required by the dozen. Those jobs are through apprenticeship where a young boy/girl would learn everything they needed to do their job. It was only when the world became industrialized that public schooling became important because the job market shifted from blue-collar to white-collar. I'm not a history major, but this is something I have noticed. I may be wrong.**

 **Gunpowder: I know people who load their own bullets. But they don't make the damn powder. Not to mention, archaic ways of making gunpowder are EXTREMELY dangerous. Also, take into consideration, that people were deadly enough with just bows, arrows, and blades. They required some skill to handle. A firearm may require more common sense, but requires less skill. You think Harry is going to introduce a substance that will make the world more dangerous? More deadly?**

 **SIDENOTE: I have no problem with people legally owning or using firearms. This is just a statement related to my story.**

 **Social Order: This one actually impressed me. I actually had to ask myself why I didn't include it. The answer was simple. If we look at history, many of the Democratic or Republic governments we have today, we have to think of how they got there. It was by rebellion. The common people rebelled against the ruling and elite classes. I don't see Harry doing that. We also have to look at what we think is wrong with the social order. We think that only the elite can become elite and the poor stay poor. That is the situation with much of the civilized world today. A few can prove themselves and be raised from what they were. Middle class families today, tend to stay within the middle class. Lower-income families tend to stay lower-income or can be moved to middle income. Rarely do either classes get raised to the 1% or even the 20%. Those are one in a million stories. Much like feudalism. A potter, baker, etc can be made a knight or even a lord.**

 **Other remaining/unaddressed inventions: Harry lived a sheltered life in the early 80's and 90's. He spent most of his life in the Magical World where technology was...pretty much non-existent. They wrote with quill and parchment, everything was lit by candlelight, etc. We already know that magic does not mix with technology...so it's not like Harry could like in his magical house with his magical elves and magical children and wives and have a TV. Kids have a way of breaking stuff even when they aren't prone to having magical outbursts.**

 **6\. Warning: I looked up the kind of sword Harry received from Rodrik Harlaw as payment for Harass's life. It's called an 'estoc'. Google it. So...another reason for me taking so long was because when I tried to combine Harry's current sword with his Valyrian steel sword, my mind just...I refused to write on if the weapon was going to become that. For weeks (not an exaggeration) I agonized, literally filtered through dozens of archives of medieval swords, but nothing fit. So...in the chapters to come...beware.**

 **As always, read and review. Go ahead and send out those ideas of things you want to see, but make them believable.**

 **289 AC – Pyke**

Robert Baratheon – The Newly Minted

His father, Steffon Baratheon, was a man of renown. A man whose physical stature matched his reputation. Tall and broad with muscles as hard as the stone walls of Storm's End. Of all the jousts he had participated in, Steffon had only been unhorsed by the best of men: Ser Barristan Selmy and former Prince Rheagar Targaryen.

Robert had many things to say about Rheagar, most of them very unflattering, but even he would acknowledge that the dragon-spawn was skilled in the art of war. The Targaryen had proved as much during the Battle of the Trident when his sword had found way to injury Robert. He hated the dead man with all the vigor a man could hate, but that did not take away from Rheagar's skill.

However, for all of his father's physique, Steffon was a man of even temperament who favored a jovial nature. His participation in tournaments was not out of the love of violence, but rather the enjoyment of the sportsmanship and competition. He was a strict lord, but fair; believing in the intention rather than letter of the law. There were many peasants and poor who still had their heads and hands only due to his father's mercy and grace.

There was none who knew him and could find a harsh word to say. Like Robert, his father loved parties and feasts. He had hosted many as a way to liven up dreary winter years in the Stormlands. Lords would come from all over their territory to eat, drink, and dance. Even the Mad King preferred Steffon to Tywin and spoke of making his father Hand of the King before his father's demise.

Robert's mother was the opposite. Cassana Baratheon, formerly of House Estermont, was the woman who put the 'storm' in Storm's End. When her ire had been sparked, everyone who could, gave his mother a wide berth. As physically opposing as his father was, even the well-loved Steffon Baratheon would conveniently find himself on the opposite end of the keep during his mother's tantrums. He always said that her passion was what he love about her, but he was not willing to suffer it.

And Robert could not blame him. When he or Stannis were victims of her tongue lashing, they proved more Estermont than Baratheon in those moments. They would hunch their shoulders around their heads and do their very best attempt at imitating a turtle. Their mother may have come from House Estermont, but she did very well in projecting the Words of House Baratheon. Only it was not 'Ours is the Fury', more like 'She was the Fury'. Her screams could silence the loudest of thunder and drown out even the strongest of crashing waves.

But she was not always so. Most of the time, their mother was just their mother. Robert could remember her reading them stories as children when she saw them off to bed, telling them jokes around the supper table, and encouraging them in most of their endeavors. It was not like Robert would expect his mother to supporting his whoring or laying with the servant girls. However, for as much as a rapscallion as he had grown to be, his mother never failed to greet him with a warm, welcoming embrace upon his return to their home from the Eyrie.

He was glad they had not lived to see him as he was. It would not have mattered to them that he was King of the Seven Kingdoms. What he had done and allowed to be done would have repulsed them.

His father would spur him because the war Robert had started was sprung from emotions and impulsiveness. He had started it because of the insult to his person. Robert did not care that thousands had died in his name for a slight against him when Rheagar kidnapped Lyanna. But his father would have. Steffon would have commanded a better way, a more peaceful way. And considering his favor with the Mad King, probably would have succeeded.

Though one of a volatile temper, his mother also would not have supported him. She would have raged against the slight against their House, but would have placed blame squarely upon Lyanna's shoulders. It would have made no sense to her how the daughter of a Lord Paramount could just be whisked away by three men, even if those men where the Prince and two of the Kingsguard.

Then, there were the things done after his rebellion. Robert shuddered to think of what punishment his father would have doled out for his allowance of a woman and children of noble blood to be spilled without recompense. His mother would have probably chased him screaming from the keep only to drown him in Shipbreakers Bay.

That was not even considering their thoughts on his marriage and debt owed to House Lannister. If his actions to secure the Iron Throne were not enough to have them disown him, then the fact that his rule rested heavily upon the name of another House would have been. Though married for years, Cersei still referred to herself as Lannister. It was nothing to him because Robert had only married her on the word of Jon. A show of his 'gratitude' to Tywin's House.

However, his parents would have minded very much that she thought her House above his own.

So, yes, he was very glad they were not alive to see the state their eldest son had fallen into.

Not that it truly mattered.

There was still his most beloved brother, Harry, to remind him.

For all their separation of age, Harry was the person in the circle he considered family that Robert got along with and loved most. More than his wife, Cersei. More than his son of three, Joffrey. More than the man he looked to as a father for many years, Jon Arryn. Even, his brother in all but blood, Ned Stark, fell a few inches short of hitting that mark.

Harry was the miracle child. After the birth of Stannis, it had taken his parents years to conceive again. No manner of potions from the maesters, no matter the change in diet, his mother appeared to have born her last son. Until Harry had come along. Not only was he born when his parents had all but given up hope, but only a year later his mother grew large again with Renly. After so many years without prospect, two sons born in almost as many years.

In truth, they all loved Harry. Amongst the brothers, each had their own reason, but it was vehemently clear that they favored Harry above each other.

His father loved Harry because he had inherited Steffon's cheerful nature. There was not a soul within their keep that his young brother did not make smile or laugh at every available opportunity. There was also the fact, that even as a babe, he was the most even tempered of them. He spoke with polite smiles and sound words. Wise words that sounded ridiculous in his childish voice, but were still astute.

Their mother doted on him the most. Though she would never admit it, they all believed it was because Harry was the one to inherit most of her features. He had the strong Baratheon body, but his face was all their mother's. The strongest of which were his eyes; almond shaped and green. Not emerald green, because to use so simple a term would not have done their mother justice.

They were the green of grass. The fresh and wonderful color of a dewy pasture just as the fog rolled away. Green that sparkled warmly and invitingly, rather than cold and lifeless. But just like their mother, they blazed like wildfire when his passion was stirred.

As the same as it was, it was also different. Where their mother would glare bloody murder and shout as though she were trying to deliver a message to Pentos, Harry…stared. He conveyed so much in his stares.

Which was why it did not matter that their parents were not alive. Harry had their father's wisdom and mother's ability to cow them with a look. A fact Robert became reacquainted with after his rebellion. He had forgotten how much Harry's looks of disappointment could hurt until his younger brother had discovered and questioned him about the murders of Elia Martell and her children.

Oh, how that day would forever be seared into Robert's memory.

Harry's stare lanced through him with enough force to take his breath away, to make the stab of Rheagar's sword feel like nothing more than a sting. Robert would rather be stabbed again than to see such looks upon his favored brother's face ever again. The sheer and utter disappointment felt like someone had given him the sky to hold up, then punched him squarely in the stomach. If he were a lesser man, it would have dropped him to his knees. As it was, Robert almost did.

Harry's forgiveness was the one thing, the only thing that had pushed Robert into giving him as hostage to Prince Doran. They could call it fostering, call it betrothal, but he was not a man who would mince words. A hostage, was a hostage, was a hostage. Just as a turd would always be a turd. No matter if it was painted gold and doused in perfume.

 **FLASHBACK**

It was a strange feeling for Robert. To be sitting at the head of the table, yet feel as if he were on the last wrung. His brother sat at the end, the large council chair damn near engulfing his still growing body. Their positions had made them feel more like enemies than Robert would have ever wanted to feel with any of his brothers. Even Stannis, who Robert provoked to incite reaction. His brothers should always be at his side, never opposite of it.

Harry most of all.

Robert had such plans for his favorite brother. The young lad had proved his fortitude during the Siege of Storm's End, never falling to despair when hunger clawed at their bellies like some vile beast. From the reports, Stannis had performed admirably in his duties to hold down the fort. However, it was Harry to lift their spirits up.

Rules of succession demanded that Robert make Stannis his heir, as much as he wished differently.

But for once the rules prevailed in his favor.

His stoic brother was much too demanding and strict when it came to the ways of lordship. With his reign as king, Robert worried over the state of their homeland should Stannis take the reins. He was a man of law and punishment, not exactly known as the most successful way of governing. That he had to make Stannis his heir, Lord of Dragonstone, quelled some of Robert's worry.

It meant he could give Storm's End and the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands to Harry, who was always the most patient among them. He would be more father than lord to the Stormlands and the Stormlords would love him as children loved their fathers.

But that was not all Robert would have of his favorite brother. True, he would see his family in positions of power. He had already had it in his mind to make Stannis Master of Ships, a convenient title to bestow upon him since his new home would be Dragonstone. However, Harry had always been destined for more. Their mother had always said that he would be more than any other third son could hope to be and Robert would see it so.

He planned on having the boy squire under Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest knight of the realm. There was no road in Harry's life that would see him among the Kingsguard. Robert would not have his brother's lineage die with him. But there were none alive Robert would rather teach his brother the ways of chivalry and battle. None more worthy.

When Harry had earned his knighthood Robert would see him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, just to give him some years of experience under his belt. As king, Robert would have no trouble finding a wife for his brother. A beautiful young woman from a high standing and wealthy family that could supply a generous dowry.

Then finally, when all was set in order and Harry had a few years to give himself heirs, Robert would have him seen made Hand of the King. He would see his favorite brother be there not just for himself, but for his children. Just as Harry had always been the one to whisper in Robert's ear, to give wisdom beyond his age to Robert in private, he would see his children heed to their uncle's insight and usher a new age of beloved kings.

Robert loved Jon Arryn as a father, valued his knowledge. A fact that saw him present Hand of the King. But the man was getting along in his years. He should not need to worry about politics and ruling. Jon was thrice-wed and yet to secure himself an heir. Robert's love for the man would rather have him ruling the lands of his forefathers and spawning all sort of chicks to raise as Jon had raised Robert and Ned. Alas, Harry was still too young of age for such responsibilities and there were none others that Robert trusted enough for such a powerful position.

There was Ned. However, his friend had made his wishes well known. Robert did not have the heart to keep him away from the frozen home that he spoke so highly about. The home of his own love.

However, those plans and thoughts were for another time. Judging from the look on Harry's face, the pensive scowl that made his young visage look comically wizened, the topic he wished to broach was not one of pleasantness. It no doubt had something to do, again, with what he planned on doing about the disagreeable situation with Dorne.

"What are you doing of there, Harry? Come and sit at your place." Robert said, indicating the chair to his right side. A subtle show of affection that would hopefully make the passing of their conversation easier.

True to form, Harry did not fuss. He did not make a mountain from a mole hill. His brother merely stood and gracefully planted himself in the chair. Even refusing help from Jon's old bones to move the heavy piece of furniture. As he sat with Jon taking place at Robert's left, Harry poured all three of them a cup of wine, taking it upon himself to play the gracious host. He could feel the tug on the corner of his lips when Harry had to partially stand on his chair to reach over to fill the Hand of the King's cup.

Robert did not care that Harry was a tad too young to partake in wine. A sentiment not shared by Jon, who shot a disappointed look across the table. Who was he to deny the boy when he himself had started young in the Vale, away from the watchful eyes of his mother.

What did bother Robert was that his cup was filled almost to the brim, while theirs barely half full. Normally, this too would not have worried him. He loved his wine as much as any man. But that Harry, someone who always preached to Robert about moderation, had done it, did make Robert's spine stiffen in his seat.

"Well, what's this about then?" He asked, waiting no longer than for the words to exit before consuming already half of the cup. Robert had the feeling he would need the tingle and relaxation only good wine could offer.

"Have you considered what you will do about the situation with Dorne?" Jon broached the subject delicately.

Robert bit back a groan at having his beliefs cemented. It was not even he who had given the order for their deaths and yet it seemed as if he were the one to pay the price. He very well could not demand anything of Tywin Lannister. To do so would show favor for Dorne who had fought against him and ill towards his wife's House; the very same House that had secured the throne for him.

"Who says anything must be done?" He fired back, turning on Jon.

"A Lord Paramount's sister is raped and murdered. Her children brutally slain. And you believe nothing should be done?" Robert resisted turning to look at his brother as the youngest of them spoke. The tone of his voice was evident enough of what he expected the answer to be.

He did not turn because Robert knew what would happen. His tongue would become tied and his mind dumb. At least he could glare and snarl at Jon, who would bear it with all the grace of a subject to the king. His brother did not have such propensities.

Harry had always made it known that they were family. And there was no higher relationship or respect that extended higher than that. It was a small mercy Stannis and Renly were not of the same mind. Robert would yank all his hair out. He did that enough with Harry's attitude alone.

"Robbie, look at me."

Robbie.

A name their mother used for him. Their mother and Harry. A ridiculous pet name that he allowed only the two of them to use because Robert understood they meant it in affection, rather than condescension.

Unconsciously, his mind went to better days. Times when Harry was younger and they would laugh while riding horses or when Robert would demonstrate his prowess in the training yard for his younger brother to marvel at. His brother chanted his name in excitement back then. He could still hear it as clearly as sept bells, 'Robbie! Robbie! Robbie!'. They were memories that faded quickly when Robert gave in to Harry's request.

Such sadness.

Such bloody disappointment.

As if he expected Robert to change the very fabric of a man during war.

Horrible and nasty things happened in war. That was just the way of the world. The way it had been since the beginning of time. It was a universal truth.

Not that the truth helped Robert in his situation. Because he also knew another truth.

Elia Martell and her children had no need to die.

An even greater truth: they would have been more valuable alive.

With their lives in his hands not only would the Martell's been quick to surrender, but any of the Targaryen Loyalists would be quick to also, lest something happen to the Targaryen descendants. They could have been hostages that could have secured his rule for decades. If they were treated well and the people prospered under his rule, in time they could have become nothing more than dressing. Having them alive presented many more possibilities.

Possibilities that were all null and void on the words of Tywin Lannister.

"What exactly can be done? You would have me go to my future good-father and demand the heads of his best attack dog and a son of one of his noble Houses?" Robert turned, yelling at Jon rather than Harry, making the man sigh and lower his head.

"No, Your Grace. Nothing so large. But, a small showing is better than none at all." Jon replied.

"Speak plainly man!"

"The bones of their uncle to start." Harry intervened, ever the voice to calm Robert's temper. "We clean him, his armor, and weapons before putting them in a grand casket befitting a loyal member of the Kingsguard for transportation so that he may have a proper burial."

"Fine! If that is all you believe that is required to bring them to heal, then see it done. We will speak no more of this." Robert stood abruptly.

It was only a few short paces to the door. He only needed a second or two to be out of the room. But a small hand with much more strength than any its size should have found his wrist. He mentally bemoaned his luck.

"Brother, please sit. You know that will not be all." And sit he grudgingly did. With a heavy plop and a quick snatch of the wine pitcher Robert gave in. "Better to deal with a small wound now, than see it a life-threatening infection later."

"Your brother is wise in his advice, Your Grace." Jon intoned.

"He's my brother!" Robert growled. "I bloody well know he is wise! Why do you think I'm still sitting here and listening to this nonsense!"

His breaths came in heaves. Jon was playing games, using his love for his brother to sell him something that he knew Robert would not have agreed to otherwise. Jon knew that Harry's disappointment hurt him, was a wound in his side that could only be closed with forgiveness, and the man was exploiting it. Perhaps even worse, Robert knew that if Harry pushed the idea enough, he would submit…if only for his brother's love. A cunning plan Robert would have whole-heartedly agreed with were it not being used against him.

"What would you have me do Harry?"

"Lord Arryn gave me a thought to ponder and after consideration, I agree that it is the best solution for us." Harry opened.

"Speak on it then, brother. Let us be finished with this." He exhaled and leaned into his chair.

"Upon Lord Arryn's travel to Sunspear, I shall accompany him." Robert perked up immediately. And not in a good way.

"The bloody hells you will!" He roared.

"Upon arrival, Lord Arryn will announce your request for me to foster at Sunspear –"

"My fucking balls I request it!"

"– as well as a betrothal contract between our two Houses. Specifically between myself and the daughter of Prince Doran."

All he saw was red. Blood red and Jon's rightfully frightened visage whom he wanted to be stained with it. Robert screamed and lunged across the table. His meaty paws all of a scant few inches away from the old lord's face when Harry jumped on his back.

"Calm down, Robbie!" His brother yelled into his ear.

"Gods damn it, Harry! Let me go! I don't want to hurt you! Just let me kill him real quick!"

"It was I that brought this idea." Harry tried to reason, grunting form the strain of holding Robert's limbs from traveling the necessary distance. But Robert was hearing none of it.

"On his words!" He shouted back, before focusing on his target who stood behind a chair as if it would stop him. No measly construction of wood, cotton, and silk would halt him. Not even the strongest walls would. "You would poison young ears! The young ears of my brother with such suicidal foolishness! I'll fucking kill you!"

"Robbie, you love him remember? You can't kill a man who was like a father to you."

It halted him for a moment. He tried to conjure those emotions. Tried to remember the feelings and affection he held for the man who had helped raised him in the Vale. And it helped a little.

"Fine." Robert sighed, relaxing for a moment in hopes of getting Harry to let go, before lunging again. "I won't kill him! I'll just bloody his face! Pound it to mush!"

"That'll kill him." Harry sighed, clearly unsatisfied with his reasoning.

"Just let me throttle him a little! I'll stop before his final breath gives!"

"Robert!"

He froze. Harry only called him that in dire situations. Not even on formal occasions did he resort to such a tone an name.

Robert was transported back in time. To when he used to pick on Stannis for sport. A point in time when Harry forcefully reminded them that they were brothers and jest in affection and fun was alright, but not for the sake of torment.

Oh, how his brother had planted himself into the ground like the mightiest of Northern trees. Robert's size advantage had not given Harry pause or caused him to show fear back then. His feet sunk into the ground and he glared like he had an army behind him.

It was no different when Harry clambered off his back to stand on the table and glare down at him. Their height difference nullified, Robert could see the colossus his brother's willfulness was.

Part of it was how he was reminded of his parents as he looked up slightly to match his brother's gaze. All the height of his father with their mother's heated glare upon him. It was all Robert could not do to turtle. And just like their mother when her outrage had subsided, the love in his eyes made Robert feel relieve that he had weathered the storm.

He felt himself grow lax as Harry's childish hands rested against the smooth skin of his cheek. Never one to be short of words, Robert found himself speaking much gentler than the rage in his chest urged him to.

"You can't expect me to agree to this Harry. You can't." He sighed softly.

"I would ask you to for the sake of peace brother. Let us be the one to stop the killing."

"I would rather go back to war than throw you into that viper's den."

So many things could go wrong. The Martell's need not make it obvious with Harry in their grasps. He could conveniently trip out of a window, fall to some mysterious illness, or just plain go missing after a ride in the desert. They could cover up their revenge as a youthful boy's willfulness or negligence of servants. Either way, their hands would be clean of blame strong enough to kill them over.

"I was disappointed in you when I heard you allowed men to go unpunished for the deaths of innocents." Harry said, causing Robert to swallow excuses that he wanted to vomit and a cringe. "But I do not love you less for it. I am asking this of you and should you deny me knowledge that the realm could be at peace, you will still be my brother. I will still not love you any less. But I will be saddened greatly. Show me you are the king, that you are the man I know you can be, Robbie."

Harry smiled at him, removing himself from the table to stand on the cobblestone flooring. He looked up at him, hands clasped behind his back, with eyes so full of hope. His brother expected him, hoped for him to do the 'right thing'. And as much as it pained him, Robert could not bear for that look of faith entrusted upon him to be replaced with disappointment. He could not be the reason for Harry to regret trusting him.

It would be a lie to say that he did not wish to have his way, to implement his own plans. His heart dropped into his stomach and his pride jeered at him, but Robert's resolve caved. Bent over like an alley whore for a silver stag. And it made him want to vomit.

"I had such plans for you, Harry. Grand plans. If I agree, you will be giving up your rights to Storm's End. You will not be a lord, but a Prince…consort." The very word made him want to gag. "Are you set upon this?"

"I understood that before ever coming to you with this." Came Harry's sure reply. The boy could very well be walking into a death trap, but did so fearlessly.

"And still? You would give up ruling our home? Ruling the land of our father and mother? To be nothing more than arm dressing for some Dornish girl? I hear her beauty is nothing so inspiring." He was stretching, grasping at any reason his mind could find to get his brother to change his mind.

"It is a price I am willing to pay for your rule to be one of peace. The end of the Targaryens was bought with much blood, let not us be the one to make the rest of the world continue to pay such a heavy sum." Harry replied, placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Besides, I will still be brother to the king. A powerful title unto itself."

He had said it with a smile, a pretense at jest to lighten the mood. However, it did nothing for Robert other than conjure enough strength to give a small smile in return. It was half-assed and weak, Robert's heart not in a cheerful mood.

A betrothal was supposed to be a joyous affair. His to Lyanna had been. Yet, it was not. He knew that almost none were betrothed for love. Marriage was for alliances or another gain. There was no gain for Robert and his House. Dorne was a poorer kingdom than both the Stormlands or the Crownlands. The girl was no great beauty who his brother could boast about. There was nothing for Robert than a dubious peace. One that was attached to sure heartache.

His brother had been strong all his life and it was a trend that deemed destined to continue. For it was Harry that was making the true sacrifice. As hurtful as it would be for Robert to lose his brother to a land so far away, it was Harry's life on the line. He should have said 'no' and carried the burden. But it was not one he was sure he could.

"So be it." Were the only words he could gather. Robert knew that his brother looked at him proudly. He could feel it when Harry patted his shoulder, as if congratulating him on a job well done.

But Robert could not bear to look at him. He could not see the pride without immediately feeling regret. Instead, he stared straight at the chair Harry had previously sat on and imagined images of a future Harry, symbol of the Hand pinned to his chest. It was only a fantasy, but it eased the pain a little.

"Go and see Ser Barristan. We will be the ones to take over your martial lessons until you depart. I will be along shortly." Robert said, gathering himself enough to at least give an pretense of an assuring smile to his brother.

"Are we fine, brother?" Harry asked comfortingly.

"We have always had our disagreements, Harry. Mostly because you feel the need to be so opinionated." Robert jested, glad that he could still make Harry laugh. "But we will always be fine."

"I shall find Ser Barristan then." He was watched as Harry gave Jon a nod and walked towards the door. His brother was halfway out when he turned his head over his shoulder. "The man was only doing his job, Robbie. A job you tasked him with. You are not the sort of king to punish his subjects for such a thing."

"Ha! Think no more on it, brother. You know how me and my temper are. All bluster in the moment." Robert waved away his concern.

"Yes, Robbie. I do know you." Harry said meaningfully.

"You have my word. On my honor, Harry, no harm shall come to him for this." Robert assured. But Harry did not move, did not even turn his head to the front. "By the gods. Should I harm him, I will not visit the brothels for a week. Does that make you feel better?"

"A month." Harry stated. "And no wine of any kind for two weeks."

"A stiff bargain, but as I am sure that I am not going to kill him. I will accept."

Satisfied, Harry quietly closed the door. As soon as it was shut, Robert leaned over to ensure that he had truly left, even counting to twenty in case Harry had forgotten something.

"You handled this very well, Your Grace. Other than your–"

Like a snake, his hand large hands clamped around Jon's face. Robert's fingers could feel the old bones underneath wrinkly skin. It would have been so easy to just squeeze and tear away the man's jaw. The very thought was tempting.

So…damn…tempting.

"He speaks on your behalf. Speaks your fucking toxic thoughts from his lips. His belief in me and in your insane idea is all that keeps me from sending you back to the Eyrie as a corpse." Robert growled, keeping the beast that roared for blood at bay. "But should anything happen to him, anything at all, it will be on your head. I will allow you that fact before I part it from you. Do we understand?"

Jon did not take kindly to being handled. But his feelings were not very high on the list of Robert's concerns. Let his feelings be hurt, so long as his message was clear.

"I understand, Your Grace."

Robert nodded once and let the man go.

"Good. Now leave me. I can no longer stand the fucking sight of you." He said, turning his back on the man he loved as his blood.

 **END FLASHBACK**

Robert had made Jon's life a living hell when he returned from Dorne. The task he had set to do was successful and Dorne had sworn fealty, but it brought little joy to Robert. For months, there was not a day that had gone by that Robert did not think on Harry's safety. He had specifically tasked Varys with it being on the top of his list of priorities. Any mention of serious danger to Harry's person and Robert was to be informed immediately. Morning, day, or night no matter the circumstances. Until Varys sent him confirmation, he waited with trepidation to hear of something foul befalling Harry.

It had taken years for his and Jon's relationship to approach anything quantifying normal. For a long time, Robert had done everything he could to make the position of Hand of the King to be as difficult as possible. Missed meetings, ventured unannounced out of the castle, among other things. Anything he could do to make the man's duties problematic was done.

But time had a way of cooling tempers. It helped immensely that Harry not only survived in Dorne, but thrived.

Squire to the Red Viper of Dorne, well renowned for his abilities with the sword and spear. Prince Oberyn was no Ser Barristan, but considering the circumstances Robert did not mind greatly the Dornish man as a replacement. True, he hadn't been particularly thrilled about it at first. However, Oberyn was a better warrior than most and Harry had to continue with his lessons.

There was also the business he had started, one that had made his brother one of the most respected men in all of Dorne. It was sponsored by Prince Doran himself and other nobles from all over the southern kingdom ventured far to place themselves and their families into Harry's tender mercies. Granted, it would never make him the mountains of gold that Little Finger's brothel did, but it was a respectable establishment. A mole hill of gold and adoration fit Harry much better than being known as a flesh peddler.

Lastly, Robert had heard word of how that ugly little thing Harry had willingly chained himself to was turning into quite the budding beauty. She still had years to go before womanhood was through with her, but at only three-and-ten the Princess Arianne was starting to gracefully bloom. The combination of her Rhynoish and Norvosi blood was sure to make her a truly exotic looking beauty.

"I did not know you capable of such expressions."

Lord Eddard 'Ned' Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and Robert's brother in all but blood. He was shorter than Robert's six-foot-six and was much more slender, but no less a skilled warrior. Ned was the opposite side of Robert were they a coin. Robert was boisterous and easy to get along with, whereas Ned preferred a quiet and patient demeanor. They called him the 'Stoic Wolf' with good reason.

Their differences were what saw them becoming best friends. Robert sought to have Ned live grander than the Northern man was accustomed to and in return, Ned had kept him grounded during their time at the Vale. They were balanced when together. Though Robert took much more pleasure in corrupting the noble Northman.

"What expressions?" Robert questioned, gesturing to the chair beside him and pouring his friend a cup of wine.

"One of pensiveness." Ned replied with a small smile, letting Robert know he came in jest.

"Oh, is my head so empty, it is incapable of thought?" Robert asked with a grin.

"I thought it so filled with wine and memories of women past, nothing else would be able to fit, Your Grace."

Robert roared in laughter, nearly choking on his wine. He smacked Ned in the shoulder good naturedly, making the man's entire body shake with the blow.

"What troubles you, Robert?" Ned asked when their laughter had subsided and just like that, Robert was dragged back down from his high. Leave it to Ned Stark to bring a man back down to the ground. Or to the sea as it was, since they were aboard ships as they laid siege to Pyke.

"My brother." He replied monosyllabically.

"Stannis? He has done well–"

"Not him. Harry." Robert corrected.

"Why would you worry about Harry? He is in–" When Robert could not look at him, it only took Ned a few moments to piece together the source for his friend's worry, "–please tell me you didn't Robert."

"You very well know I did." Robert stated.

"He is too young for this." Ned shot back heatedly. "War, Robert? You drag your favorite brother to war?"

"You have issue with Stannis leading the royal ships?"

"That is different." Ned cut him off, knowing where his friend's mind leap to. "Stannis has already married, has a child, and been a man for many years. Young Harry has done none of those things."

"He buoyed the morale of the men during the Siege." Robert was quick to remind Ned. "He is no stranger to the Stranger, nor to the ills of war! My brother is a man now, regardless of how young you think he may be!"

Harry was his family. His blood. He would not have anyone tell him on how his family should be dealt with. Not after his capitulation to Jon Arryn's idea for Harry to be fostered in Dorne. Robert would never allow another to twist his family for the sake of their own goals; no matter how noble they may be.

"I said nothing to you when you decided to bring your bastard son home to your new wife. I have never questioned how you run your household, I would expect the same respect from the man who calls me friend."

Ned took a figurative step back, looking to the ground as if the planks of the ship held answers. A part of it was shame Robert knew. Shame of disgracing his wife with the presence of a bastard under the same roof they shared with their children. An honorable thing for a man to do, but also exponentially foolish. If Robert had done the same thing, he would never sleep from the nagging Cersei would drum into his ears.

"You claim to love him, boldly so above all your other brothers. And what if something were to happen to him, Robert? War is an uncertain time. Even the best of men can be felled with a lucky arrow or stray swing of a sword. What would become of you then? Do you remember how you became at the news of my sister's death? I feared you would have been much worse if not for the presence of Young Harry. Who will be there to console you should he die? Who will be there to quiet the demons in your head that say that it was your fault, that you had led him to death?"

The thought had occurred to Robert. Many, many times. However, each time seemed more absurd than the last. Harry could not die. There was no version of his life that Robert could fathom without his brother in it.

Away in Dorne, running his hospice, with a dozen Dornish children – legitimate or otherwise – was easy to stomach. Even the unlikely reality where Harry demanded his engagement to the Martell girl off and returned back to his rightful place as Lord of the Stormlands Robert could imagine. Hells, he preferred that reality among them all, even if it would once again bring Dornish hostility.

But in none of them was Harry not alive. He had survived the better part of a year under siege. Prospered in the hands of a family Robert could only label as hostile. There was no way his brother would survive all of that, only to perish in a minor rebellion. Robert had ensured that the odds would ever be in his favor.

There was no need to rally the majority of the Stormlands fleets or so many of the banners. Robert had secured it to see his brother well protected.

"Nothing will happen to him." Robert finally said, secured in his strategy.

"But what if something does." Ned pressed on.

"It won't." He pressed back.

"But what if something does."

Robert broke, his famous temper rising out of him with all the force of an erupting volcano. And just like a volcano, he had no care to what or who was in his way.

"Then anyone who even has a hint of Ironborn blood will know the meaning of the words of our House! They shall reap my fury as I descend all my armies upon them like a fucking whirlwind! I will tear down their keeps of stone and rebuild them of the skulls and bones. Such death and anguish I will bring upon them by land, sea, and the gods damned air if need be, that they will think me their storm god made flesh!" He roared, throwing his cup of wine to the ground so hard it bounced away as if a pup kicked.

His chest heaved and his shoulders with them as the King of the Seven Kingdoms breathed raggedly. His face to turn red, the color of blood and anger. But, Ned just stared impassively waiting for his tirade to be over.

"And yet, for all you will do, your brother would still be dead."

A crewman saved Lord Stark from reaping Robert's temper.

"Your Grace, ships approach from the east."

Robert spared his friend another glare, a warning that they would never speak of such ill thoughts ever again. There was much Robert would tolerate from his best friend. But the very notion of Harry's death, or thought Robert would ever be responsible, was not one of them.

"Their sails?" Robert asked, shouldering his way past Ned. "What standard does the lead ship display?"

"The green turtle of House Estermont, Your Grace." The crewman replied.

"Is it large or small?" Robert continued to question.

"Your Grace?" The youngest in the room posed quizzically.

"Large or small man! Is the ship large or small! Is there nothing but air between your ears!"

"Robert, be easy on the poor boy. I'm sure he was just confused." Ned came between them, as if their earlier argument had never happened.

"What is there to be confused about? Large or small? It is a stupidly straightforward question!"

"Uh...larger than most, but not so large as Your Grace's ship." The young man finally replied, stuttering the whole way through. He was even more shocked when the King wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. Only very briefly, but it was done nonetheless.

"Ha! You see, Ned! You worried over nothing!" Robert said, bringing the Stark into a hug, the animosity between them seemingly forgotten. "Harry sails this way victorious from Harlaw! And a day early to boot!"

"Good fortune then." Ned nodded, relieved that nothing had befallen the younger Baratheon brother.

"Other news, Your Grace. Reports are that the siege has been doing remarkably well over the past two days. It is assumed that the walls of Pyke should fall soon."

"The gods smile upon us!" Robert boasted. "Before the day is through we shall be feasting in Balon Greyjoy's halls! How long until my brother's arrival?"

"If the waves are with him, then no more than an hour, Your Grace."

"Good, good. Fetch me my squire. I would don my armor before his arrival." Robert instructed.

"At once, Your Grace." The crewman said, beating a hasty retreat to carry out his orders.

"You would have him seen you in splendor." Ned devised.

"It has been many years since we had last seen each other. I would have him see me in glorious armor, rather than plain drabs."

"There is nothing plain of your garb other than design, my friend." Ned pointed out, causing Robert to look down to his attire.

Sure enough, it was clothes fit for a king. A black samite long sleeved doublet, fitted with gold buttons and minor trimming along the cuffs and tail. His pants and boots were made of the best deer skin.

It was true that they were no commoners garb and conveyed the sense of majesty and wealth as king's should. However, it was a pale comparison to the regal visage of sterling full-plate with great antlers mounted upon his helm and his war-hammer in hand. That, along with his charismatic personality, was something that had inspired thousands of men to follow him into battle.

"Still, many years. I would like to make an impression. On that note, you should go an put on your armor as well."

"For what purpose?" Ned queried.

"My brother has only heard stories of you. On your first meeting, I would have him see those stories genuine."

"Oh, Robert." Ned groaned exasperatedly. "What have you told him?"

"Nothing that was untrue." He came to his own defense quickly. "There may have been some embellishment on my part, but not a lick of it was false."

Robert had regaled many times of their past exploits and adventures in the Vale. There were plenty to be had over the years as neither had been to the kingdom before. He told Harry about their trips to the Blood Gates, the small skirmishes they had fought against the Mountain Tribes, and beautiful women they had entertained. Maybe the numbers of the clan members they had fought off or number of women they had bedded slightly made more numerous for dramatic effect, but they had happened.

"And make sure you are holding Ice when Harry arrives. I doubt my brother has seen Valyrian steel, as I know of no family in Dorne that carries such weapons."

"Is this not a bit much Robert? He has already captured Harlaw and I can only wonder how it will affect him to have seen such bloodshed, regardless of whether he had partaken. Should you not usher him back to Dorne? Back into the arms of the young woman that is no doubt waiting for him?" Ned urged his friend kindly.

"And have him miss our victory? The bloody Wall will melt first. I would have my brother here to share in our glory. Besides, I have not seen my brother for years and your advice would have me send him back so soon?" Robert rhetorically questioned, as his squire had entered and quickly moved around them to fetch the armor.

He gave the boy no acknowledgement or help other than to raise his arms so that his breastplate may be fastened. The boy was a Lannister, nephew to Tywin. He had done enough service to that House by taking him as his squire. Robert need not do the boy any favors.

"Send him to Riverrun by way of Seagard. Lord Hoster Tully is my good-father and would surely see him well taken care of. We will even send letter with both our seals to see it done." Ned reasoned. "When all is well and done, there will no doubt be a celebration to your victory. Send for him then."

His friend's reasoning was fine. But Robert was nothing if not a stubborn man. There was a reason, other than glory, that he wanted Harry to participate. He wanted Harry to see firsthand just how badly war could affect a man. Maybe then he would understand. His brother would realize that as distasteful the death of his future wife's aunt was, it was just a casualty of war. That it was not his brother's anger or recklessness that had seen the woman and her children killed.

"I have made my decision, Ned." Robert stated firmly. "Now, go put on your armor and ready yourself to meet my brother."

They shared a stare, competed on who would cave first. It sure as hell was not going to be Robert. He knew Ned. The man was too honorable to disobey Robert, his brother whom he had sworn fealty to. His command was given. Ned would obey.

"As you will, Your Grace. I shall return shortly."

 _Damn right you will._ Robert thought, keeping his eye on Ned until the man had left. If Robert had not known better, he would have sworn Ned and Harry were cut from the same cloth. They both gave him the same kind of headache.

It was convenient he had someone he could take his anger out on.

"Faster, boy!" He shouted. "You still need to buff my war-hammer. If I am tardy to greet my brother as he boards you will be cleaning horse shit for so many moons you will think yourself a stable-boy!"

"Yes, Your Grace!" The boy squeaked, to Robert's amusement.

 _My brother coming soon and a Lannister who quakes before me. It's good to be King._


End file.
